“I was. But come in and talk. Move those things from your chair on to the bunk.”
After a short silence, John said: “I’ve written to my mother, asking her to take me out.”
Hartington moved suddenly, his eyes shining. “Oh, splendid!” he cried. “I am glad. I wondered if you’d ever have the guts to do that. Which is it to be—Balliol or Univ.?”
Never had John felt more gratitude than he did for this enthusiasm.
“You think I’m right?” he asked, for the pleasure of hearing Hartington answer: “Yes, of course you are right. Go and order some drinks, and then come back and tell me what you are going to do—all your plans. And we’ll drink to Oxford and the Great Work. We’ll drink to all our dreams—yours, coming true—and mine, very like yours once.”
The drinks were ordered, and John returned.
“Probably my mother won’t take me out,” he said.
“Yes, she will. She’s bound to if you’ve made her understand—she wouldn’t be your mother otherwise.”
“It’s a question of money.”
“Oh!...”