Watersprings - Benson Arthur Christopher

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asked his advice, looked to him to get him out of any small difficulties that arose. They were not very much together, and mostly met only on official occasions. Howard was a busy man, and had little time, or indeed taste, for vague conversation. Jack was a boy of natural tact, and he treated all the authorities with the same unembarrassed directness. Undergraduates are quick to remark on any sort of favouritism, but only if they think that the favoured person gets any unfair advantage by his intimacy. But Howard came down on Jack just as decisively as he came down on anyone else whose work was unsatisfactory. It was known that they were a sort of cousins; and, moreover, Jack Sandys was generally popular, though only in his first year, because he was free from any touch of uppishness, and of an imperturbable good-humour.

      But his own feeling for the boy surprised Howard. He did not think him very interesting, nor had they much in common except a perfect goodwill. It was to Howard as if Jack represented something beyond and further than himself, for which Howard cared—as one might love a house for the sake of someone that had inhabited it, or because of events that had happened there. He tried vaguely to interest Jack in some of the things he cared about, but wholly in vain. That cheerful youth went quietly on his own way—modest, handsome, decided, knowing exactly what he liked, with very material tastes and ambitions, not in the least emotional or imaginative, and yet with a charm of which all were conscious. He was bored by any violent attempts at friendship, and quite content in almost anyone's company, naturally self-contained and temperate, making no claims and giving no pledges; and yet Howard was deeply haunted by the sense that Jack stood for something almost bewilderingly fine which he himself could not comprehend or interpret, and of which the boy himself was wholly and radiantly unconscious. It gave him, indeed, a sudden warmth about the heart to see Jack in the court, or even to think of him as living within the same walls; but there was nothing jealous or exclusive about his interest, and when they met, there was often nothing particular to say.

      Presently lunch was announced, and Howard led the way to a little panelled parlour which looked out on the river. They both ate with healthy appetites; and presently Jack, looking about him, said, "This room is rather nice! I don't know how you make your rooms so nice?"

      "Mostly by having very little in them except what I want," said Howard. "These panelled rooms don't want any ornaments; people spoil rooms by stuffing them, just as you spoil my cat,"—Jack was feeding the cat with morsels from his plate.

      "It's a nice cat," said Jack; "at least I like it in your rooms. I wouldn't have one in my rooms, not if I were paid for it—it would be what the Master calls a serious responsibility." Presently, after a moment's silence, Jack said, "It's rather convenient to be related to a don, I think. By the way, what sort of screw do they give you—I mean your income—I suppose I oughtn't to ask?"

      "It isn't usually done," said Howard, "but I don't mind your asking, and I don't mind your knowing. I have about six hundred a year here."

      "Oh, then I was right," said Jack. "Symonds said that all the dons had about fifteen hundred a year out of the fees; he said that it wouldn't be worth their while to do it for less. But I said it was much less. My father only gets about two hundred a year out of his living, and it all goes to keep me at Cambridge. He says that when he is vexed about things; but he must have plenty of his own. I wish he would really tell me. Don't you think people ought to tell their sons about their incomes?"

      "I am afraid you are a very mercenary person," said Howard.

      "No, I'm not," said Jack; "only I think one ought to know, and then one could arrange. Father's awfully good about it, really; but if ever I spend too much, he shakes his head and talks about the workhouse. I used to be frightened, but I don't believe in the workhouse now."

      When luncheon was over, they went back to the other room. It was true that, as Jack had said, Howard managed to make something pleasant out of his rooms. The study was a big place looking into the court; it was mostly lined with books, the bookcases going round the room in a band about three feet from the floor and about seven feet high. It was a theory of Howard's that you ought to be able to see all your books without either stooping or climbing. There was a big knee-hole table and half a dozen chairs. There was an old portrait in oils over the mantelpiece, several arm-chairs, one with a book-rest. Half a dozen photographs stood on the mantelpiece, and there was practically nothing else in the room but carpets and curtains. Jack lit a cigarette, sank into a chair, and presently said, "You must get awfully sick of the undergraduates, I should think, day after day?"

      "No, I don't," said Howard; "in fact I must confess that I like work and feel dull without it—but that shows that I am an elderly man."

      "Yes, I don't care about my work," said Jack, "and I think I shall get rather tired of being up here before I have done with it. It's rather pointless, I think. Of course it's quite amusing; but I want to do something real, make some real money, and talk about business. I shall go into the city, I think."

      "I don't believe you care about anything but money," said Howard; "you are a barbarian!"

      "No, I don't care about money," said Jack; "only one must have enough—what I like are REAL things. I couldn't go on just learning things up till I was twenty-three, and then teaching them till I was sixty-three. Of course I think it is awfully good of you to do it, but I can't think why or how you do it."

      "I suppose I don't care about real things," said Howard.

      "No, I can't quite make you out," said Jack with a smiling air, "because of course you are quite different from the other dons—nobody would suppose you were a don—everyone says that."

      "It's very kind of you to say so," said Howard, "but I am not sure that it is a compliment—a tradesman ought to be a tradesman, and not to be ashamed of it. I'm a sophist, of course."

      "What's a sophist?" said Jack. "Oh, I know. You lectured about the sophists last term. I don't remember what they were exactly, but I thought the lecture awfully good—quite amusing! They were a sort of parsons, weren't they?"

      "You are a wonderful person, Jack!" said Howard, laughing. "I declare I have never had such extraordinary things said to me as you have said in the last half-hour."

      "Well, I want to know about people," said Jack, "and I think it pays to ask them. You don't mind, do you? That's the best thing about you, that I can say what I think to you without putting my foot in it. But you said you were going to lecture me about my sins—come on!"

      "No," said Howard, "I won't. You are not serious enough to-day, and I am not vexed enough. You know quite well what I think. There isn't any harm in you; but you are idle, and you are inquisitive. I don't want you to be very different, on the whole, if only you would work a little more and take more interest in things."

      "Well," said Jack, "I do take interest—that's the mischief; there isn't time to work—that's the truth! I shall scrape through the Trip, and then I shall have done with all this nonsense about the classics; it really is humbug, isn't it? Such a fuss about nothing. The books I like are those in which people say what they might say, not those in which they say what they have had days to invent. I don't see the good of that. Why should I work, when I don't feel interested?"

      "Because whatever you do, you will have to do things in which you are not interested," said Howard.

      "Well, I think I will wait and see," said Jack. "And now I must be off. I really have said some awful things to you to-day, and I must apologise; but I can't help it when I am with you; I feel I must say just what comes into my head; I must fly; thank you for lunch; and I truly will do better, but mind only for YOU, and not because I think it's any good." He put down the cat with a kiss. "Good-bye, Mimi," he said; "remember me, I beseech you!" and he hurried away.

      Howard sat still for a minute or two, looking at the fire; then he gave a laugh, got up, stretched himself, and went out for a walk.

      Even so quiet a thing as a walk was not unattended by a certain amount of ceremonial. Howard passed some six or seven men of his acquaintance, some of whom presented a stick or raised a stiff hand without a smile or indeed any sign of recognition; one went so far as to say, "Hullo, Kennedy!" and one eager conversationalist went so far as to say,

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