“Some do, sir,” said Quentillian, beginning to feel rather sorry for the Canon.
The Canon, however, received Quentillian’s consolatory effort very much at its true worth.
“Some do, perhaps, as you say, but they are not those from whom any very valuable contribution to the problems of the times is to be expected. The tone of Oxford is not what it was, Owen—not what it was. It lessens my disappointment at not sending Adrian there, to find an Alma Mater indeed, as his father before him. One had always thought of the Church for him, dear boy, but these things cannot be forced. His soldiering seems to have put an end to any leanings that way. Adrian is one reason, amongst many others, why I am glad to welcome you amongst us, Owen. He may find it easier to discuss things with a contemporary,” said the Canon wistfully. “Your own destiny, I imagine, is sealed?”
Quentillian assented, although he had thought of the very small property recently inherited by himself in no such grandiloquent terms.
“When do you take possession of your kingdom?”
“In a few months, sir. The place was let during my uncle’s lifetime, and there are repairs to be done before I go there. I intend to live there, and try my hand at farming.”
He purposely omitted any mention of his writing.
“Good—good—excellent indeed. And we shall not be very distant neighbours, eh?”
“Just the other side of the county, sir. I should like to go over there from here, if you’re kind enough to put up with me for two or three days.”
“By all means, of course—but let there be no talk of two or three days, Owen, between you and me. Make this your headquarters; come and go quite freely, as one of ourselves. We have always thought of you as one of ourselves,” said the Canon warmly. “I think you have no very close ties, this side of the Great Division?”