So he sat down beside her on a sand-hill and told her: about the long low-ceiled room in the quadrangle of the Bodleian, the old marbles which lined the walls, the examiner at the blue baize table, and the little deal tables (all scribbled over with names and dates and verses and ribald remarks) at which the candidates wrote; also of the _viva voce_ examination in the antechamber of the Convocation House, He told it all as if it were the great event he honestly felt it to be. “And the others,” said she, “those who were writing around you, and the examiner--how did you feel towards them?” Taffy stared at her. “I don’t know that I thought much about them.” “Didn’t you feel as if it was a battle and you wanted to beat them all?” He broke out laughing. “Why, the examiner was an old man, as dry as a stick! And I hardly remember what the others were like--except one, a white-headed boy with a pimply face. I couldn’t help noticing him, because whenever I looked up there he was at the next table, staring at me and chewing a quill.” “I can’t understand,” she confessed. “Often and often I have tried to think myself a man--a man with ambition. And to me that has always meant fighting. I see myself a man, and the people between me and the prize have all to be knocked down or pushed out of the way. But you don’t even see them--all you see is a pimply-faced boy sucking a quill. Taffy--” “Yes?” “I wish you would write to me when you get to Oxford. Write regularly. Tell me all you do.” “You will like to hear?” “Of course I shall. So will George. But it’s not only that. You have such an easy way of going forward; you take it for granted you’re going to be a great man--” “I don’t.” “Yes, you do. You think it just lies with yourself, and it is nobody’s business to interfere with you. You don’t even notice those who are on the same path. Now a woman would notice every one, and find out all about them.” “Who said I wanted to be a great man?” “Don’t be silly, that’s a good boy! There’s your father coming out of the church porch, and you haven’t told him yet. Run to him, but promise first.” “What?” “That you will write.” “I promise.” CHAPTER XXI. HONORIA’S LETTERS. 1. “CARWITHIEL, Oct. 25, 18--.”