“That’s a good deal, I think,” said Mrs. Carthew. “Pray tell me what professions you have condemned.”
“I’m not going into the Army. I’m not going into the Civil Service. I’m not going to be a doctor or a lawyer.”
“Or a parson?” asked Mrs. Carthew, crunching through so many lupin stalks at once that they fell with a rattle on to the path.
“Well, I have thought about being a parson,” Michael slowly granted. “But I don’t think parsons ought to marry.”
“Good gracious,” exclaimed Mrs. Carthew, “you’re surely not engaged?”
“Oh, no,” said Michael; but he felt extremely flattered by the imputation. “Still, I might want to be.”
“Then you’re in love,” decided Mrs. Carthew. “No wonder you look so careworn. I suppose she’s nearly thirty and has promised to wait until you come of age. I can picture her. If I had my stick with me I could draw her on the gravel. A melon stuck on a bell-glass, I’ll be bound.”
“I’m not in love, and if I were in love,” said Michael with dignity, “I certainly shouldn’t be in love with anyone like that. But I could be in love at any moment, and so I don’t think I shall be a parson.”
“You’ve got plenty of time,” said Mrs. Carthew. “Alan says you’re going to Oxford next year.”
Michael’s heart leapt—next year had never before seemed so imminent.