“That’s nice,” said Rickie, speaking to himself. “Any profession may mean dishonour, but one isn’t allowed to die instead. The army’s different. If a soldier makes a mess, it’s thought rather decent of him, isn’t it, if he blows out his brains? In the other professions it somehow seems cowardly.” “I am not competent to pronounce,” said Mr. Pembroke, who was not accustomed to have his schoolroom satire commented on. “I merely know that the army is the finest profession in the world. Which reminds me, Rickie—have you been thinking about yours?” “No.” “Not at all?” “No.” “Now, Herbert, don’t bother him. Have another meringue.” “But, Rickie, my dear boy, you’re twenty. It’s time you thought. The Tripos is the beginning of life, not the end. In less than two years you will have got your B.A. What are you going to do with it?” “I don’t know.” “You’re M.A., aren’t you?” asked Agnes; but her brother proceeded— “I have seen so many promising, brilliant lives wrecked simply on account of this—_not settling soon enough_. My dear boy, you must think. Consult your tastes if possible—but think. You have not a moment to lose. The Bar, like your father?” “Oh, I wouldn’t like that at all.” “I don’t mention the Church.” “Oh, Rickie, do be a clergyman!” said Miss Pembroke. “You’d be simply killing in a wide-awake.” He looked at his guests hopelessly. Their kindness and competence overwhelmed him. “I wish I could talk to them as I talk to myself,” he thought. “I’m not such an ass when I talk to myself. I don’t believe, for instance, that quite all I thought about the cow was rot.” Aloud he said, “I’ve sometimes wondered about writing.” “Writing?” said Mr. Pembroke, with the tone of one who gives everything its trial. “Well, what about writing? What kind of writing?” “I rather like,”—he suppressed something in his throat,—“I rather like trying to write little stories.” “Why, I made sure it was poetry!” said Agnes. “You’re just the boy for poetry.” “I had no idea you wrote. Would you let me see something? Then I could judge.” The author shook his head. “I don’t show it to any one. It isn’t anything. I just try because it amuses me.” “What is it about?” “Silly nonsense.” “Are you ever going to show it to any one?” “I don’t think so.” Mr. Pembroke did not reply, firstly, because the meringue he was eating was, after all, Rickie’s; secondly, because it was gluey and stuck his jaws together. Agnes observed that the writing was really a very good idea: there was Rickie’s aunt,—she could push him. “Aunt Emily never pushes any one; she says they always rebound and crush her.” “I only had the pleasure of seeing your aunt once. I should have thought her a quite uncrushable person. But she would be sure to help you.” “I couldn’t show her anything. She’d think them even sillier than they are.” “Always running yourself down! There speaks the artist!” “I’m not modest,” he said anxiously. “I just know they’re bad.”