As they travelled northwards Edwin was thinking all the time of the work that he would do in his little room above the bed of stocks. It should be a fragrant room, he thought, and a good one for reading, for when his attention wandered he would be able to lift his eyes to a line of gentler hills crowned by the dark folds of Shenstone’s hanging woods. And there he would be able to dream of the coloured past and of his own exciting future, and the enchanted life that he would soon be leading among the noblest works of men in letters and in stone. Oxford, his Mecca . . . the eternal city of his dreams. He allowed his fancy to travel westward over the rolling Cotswold and droop by the slow descent of river valleys to that sacred place. His father’s voice dispelled his dream. They were alone in the carriage and their privacy made speaking easy. “Edwin . . . I’ve been thinking a good deal about your future.” “Yes, father?” “I’ve been thinking it over in my own mind. I talked it over a week or two ago with your Uncle Albert. He’s a sound man of business, you know. Then I felt that I couldn’t trust my judgment; the whole world was upside down; but now I feel that I can think clearly, and of course I am anxious to do my best for you. I’ve been thinking about this Oxford plan. . . .” “Yes.” “You know quite well, Edwin, that I’m not a rich man. I’m a very poor man. You can understand that, better than you could before, after this holiday. And when people have very limited means and are getting on in life—this business has made me an old man, you know—they have to be very careful in their decisions. Looking at it from every point of view, I don’t think it would be fair of me to let you go to Oxford.” “Father . . . what do you mean?” “To begin with, there’s the expense.” “But I shall get a scholarship. I’ll work like anything. I’ll make sure of it.” “I’m sure you would. You’re a good boy. But that isn’t everything by a long way. When you’ve got your scholarship, supposing you do get it, the expense would begin. I shouldn’t like you to feel at a hopeless disadvantage with men of your own year. You would have to live quite a different life from them. You wouldn’t be able to afford any of their pleasures.” “I shouldn’t want their pleasures.” “That is a rash thing to say. But I’m looking even farther ahead. What can you expect to do when you’ve taken a degree in Arts?” “A fellowship. . . .” “Ah, but that is a matter of considerable uncertainty. I’ve seen so many men who have managed to scrape through a university degree and then been thrown on the world in a state of miserable poverty. Look at Mr. Kelly at the grammar-school. You wouldn’t like to live his life; but I believe he has quite a brilliant university career behind him. No . . . I don’t think it would be fair to you.” “But mother and I always said . . .”