“_I am very, very sorry for all this. I know the trouble and worry I must be causing you. If I tried to explain in detail what has led up to this I should never end: the causes go back further than I can trace them. It may be quite impossible for reasons of money that I should leave. If so, tell me, and I shall manage to settle down as I am. But I had to ask in case, just for lack of asking, I was letting slip the one chance of another start._ “_I will send some little news very soon._ “_J. L._” “Jack Pots!” cried a poker player. The chips rattled into a saucer. “What about some drinks?... Drink for you, Lynwood?” “No, thanks very much.” He put his letter into an envelope, stamped and addressed it, and scribbled “Via Siberia” across its corner. Then, having dropped it into a hollow-voiced letter-box, he left the Gunroom. The decision being now inevitable, he dared discuss it with Hartington. “Can I come in, Hartington? or--or are you reading?” “I was. But come in and talk. Move those things from your chair on to the bunk.” After a short silence, John said: “I’ve written to my mother, asking her to take me out.” Hartington moved suddenly, his eyes shining. “Oh, splendid!” he cried. “I am glad. I wondered if you’d ever have the guts to do that. Which is it to be--Balliol or Univ.?” Never had John felt more gratitude than he did for this enthusiasm. “You think I’m right?” he asked, for the pleasure of hearing Hartington answer: “Yes, of course you are right. Go and order some drinks, and then come back and tell me what you are going to do--all your plans. And we’ll drink to Oxford and the Great Work. We’ll drink to all our dreams--yours, coming true--and mine, very like yours once.” The drinks were ordered, and John returned. “Probably my mother won’t take me out,” he said. “Yes, she will. She’s bound to if you’ve made her understand--she wouldn’t be your mother otherwise.” “It’s a question of money.” “Oh!...” “Oxford’s impossible, anyhow.” “Then, damn Oxford!... Lynwood, you _must_ get out. I didn’t. Something interfered--never mind what. And now I know.... You must escape somehow.” Then slowly John explained much that, even to Hartington, he had never spoken of before--how little money there was, and how little influence. He talked of his mother and of Mr. Alter. “I believe Alter would help but I don’t like to ask him.” “Why not--if you’re going into journalism?” “I know; but, you see,” John said, with hesitation, “I think Alter was in love with my mother at one time. I’m not sure he doesn’t love her still. One can’t ask favours.” They talked until near midnight, when John rose to go.