She broke into a canter, Heart of Oak striding at her side. The hill steepened against them just under the brow, and they came back into a walk.
"If I was my own master I should farm and breed horses," said the young man.
She glanced at him keenly.
"Aren't you your own master?"
He shook his head.
"I've got to stick to the desk."
"D'you like it?"
He looked away.
"I shall never make a banker," he said. "You see, I'm no good at sums." He flicked at the turf with his thong. "Now my father was a born financier. He could do that—and nothing much else. If there are no banks in heaven I'm afraid he'll be terribly bored. But I'm a farmer—or a fool; I'm not quite sure which. If my father had lived it might have been different. He might have entered me. But he died during my second year at Oxford four years ago, and I had to buckle to and do the best I could for myself."
"Bad luck," said the girl.