“So a mile is too far for you to walk, Spode?” said Lucius.
“Walk, sir? From the station?”
“Yes. Was a mile too far? It is a fine day.”
Mr. Spode looked out of the window, as though he had not considered this.
“Does one walk from stations?” said Oliver. “Cabs are always there. And what is the good of them, if people walk?”
“Many people have luggage,” said Lucius, “Spode had the expense of sending his luggage in advance and of taking a cab.”
“If you call it expense,” said Mr. Spode.
“What would you call it?”
“Expense,” said Mr. Spode, a smile creeping over his face.
“I was thriftier than you at your stage.”
“I should hope so,” said Juliet, “or your talk would have no meaning.”
“I took care of the pence. I hope Spode’s pounds take care of themselves.”
“I take care of them,” said Mr. Spode, at once.
“Pounds are made of pence,” said Lucius.
“No,” said Oliver. “Nothing is made of two hundred and forty parts.”
“Well, I see what you mean,” said Lucius.
“Do you?” said Juliet. “How n ce to be able to talk like educated men!”
“How is Miss James?” said Mr. Spode.
“I think she is well,” said Lucius, with a faint note of surprise.
“She looked exhausted at the end of last term. Not that she ever talks of herself.”
“That is one excuse for my husband’s not knowing about her,” said Juliet.
“I must hear more about Miss James,” said Oliver.
“Well, pay attention,” said his aunt.
“We are dependent on her,” said Mr. Spode.
“For your creature comforts,” said Lucius. “Does your your work come anywhere in your lives?”
“Mine hardly does,” said Mr. Spode. “I am too far above it.”
“Why did you choose it?”
“Because it was a blind alley. I was afraid of anything that led to further things. I shall only need it during my mother’s life.”
“How old is — how is — is your mother well?”
“Of course she is,” said Juliet. “Or Mr. Spode could not speak as if she would not always be.”
“She is seventy. She was forty when I was born. I am her only child and the child of her old age.”
“Well, I hope she will remain herself for a long time,” said Lucius.
“She hunts,” said Mr. Spode, on a deeper note, “and her horse has an Irish strain.”
“Perhaps she will give up hunting soon,” said Juliet. “No, do not interrupt me, Lucius. I must say something to comfort Mr. Spode. After all, I am a woman.”
“Do not tell me she is wonderful,” said Mr. Spode. “It is not that to misuse power.”
“I see that her failings have endeared her to you,” said Oliver.
The two tall, heavy young men stood side by side, looking as if they would be alike, if Mr. Spode’s hair had not been light, his complexion fair, and his eyes grey instead of dark. Sefton’s eyes rested on them, as though he saw them as a pair.
“Will you take your brother to Miss James, Oliver?” said Lucius. “Spode will act as guide.”
Mr. Spode put his hand on Sefton’s collar to direct his steps, and as they reached the passage turned to Oliver.
“I ask you—” he said, taking up his umbrella and breaking off to look at it with interest.
“Is anything amiss with your umbrella?”
“The boys,” said Mr. Spode, putting the umbrella under his arm with a look of relief. “They are what is amiss with many things. I ask you if it is proper for my mother to keep her income, and give me only an allowance, when we are equal human beings of mature age.”
“How does the money come to be hers?”
“Her father left it to her, because she was his daughter, and I was only his grandson. Such a shallow reason.”
“But hardly an unnatural one.”
“He should not have allowed it to influence him. Suppose we all did what was not unnatural! And he did not like my not hunting. He said I was afraid of the risk.”
“And were you not afraid?”
“I shrink from all danger. I have high imaginative power. My mother does not see the pictures that rise before me. That is why I look so old for my age. My face carries its experience.”
“An accident might be instantaneous,” said Oliver.
“Sometimes horse and rider are entangled,” said Mr. Spode, losing hold of Sefton and opening the door of the common room. “Dalziel, Bigwell, Shelley! Know each other.”
“We have followed hard on each other’s heels,” said Mr. Daiziel, rising to shake hands.
“Each name has two l’s,” said Mr. Bigwell, as he shook hands without rising.
“And does that constitute a bond?” said Oliver.
“We can do with one, as the term goes on,” said Mr. Bigwell, on an almost retaliatory note.
“Surely we are not on each other’s nerves already?”
“Nephew of the Head?” said Mr. Bigwell, turning his thumb in the direction of the study.
“Of his wife. She is my mother’s sister, my Aunt Juliet.”
“You are giving up a leisured life at home, I understand?”
“Yes, I need a rest from it.”
Mr. Bigwell nodded several times, as though he could follow this.
“I did not know that masters were put through a catechism. I thought it was only the boys.”
“A certain foundation is necessary to an acquaintanceship. And sharing a common life involves as much as that.”
“I like to tell you all about myself. I only meant I did not know it was customary.”
“So you two knew each other?” said Mr. Bigwell, indicating Oliver and Mr. Spode.
“No,” said the latter.
“But you were walking arm-in-arm.”
“An affectionate impulse,” said Oliver. “It helped me a good deal. I only left my home this morning.”
“Parents?” said Mr. Bigwell.
“Two living. One dead,” said Oliver.
“Beyond the average,” said Mr. Bigwell, not permitting himself further enquiry.
Mr. Dalziel raised his eyes.
“Father, mother, and now stepmother,” said Oliver, looking at the latter.
“Stepmother any good?” said Mr. Bigwell.
“Yes, too much good. Now please tell me all about yourself.”
“Both parents living in the North. Member of a large family.”
Oliver nodded in Mr. Bigwell’s manner, and Mr. Dalziel gave a gentle, almost guilty laugh.
“Religion?” said Mr. Spode to Oliver.
“None. Village church at home. Sometimes play the organ. Play the harmonium here.”
“None. Chapel at home. I am not ashamed of it,” said Mr. Bigwell.
“Surely you must be,” said Mr. Spode.
“I should not confess it, if I were.”
“People are always ashamed of things they confess. Otherwise they would be easy in keeping them to themselves. I confess I have not a penny in the world, apart from what my mother allows me. But I am ashamed.”
“Then why are you not quiet about it?”
“People might expect me to help them on their way,” said Mr. Spode.
“I have nothing but what I earn,” said Mr. Bigwell.
“Then you must be ashamed and glad to have got the confession over.”
“I think independence is a good thing, though it may be an arrogant attitude.”
“If it were arrogant, it would be very nice,” said Oliver. “But it is brave and sad, and makes other people ashamed for us. I am ceasing to be proud of depending on myself.”
“Have you a religion, Spode?” said Mr. Bigwell.
“I have tried many things in my search for support. But I have had no encouragement. My mother is a sceptic.”