And so on, disjointedly, as the sense of it soaked in, and thoughts rose in his mind like bright bubbles—rose and burst. Tressor understood it all. And he liked the way the boy peered at a picture, picked up a paper-knife and examined it as if it were something rare, looked out at the roses, shot a questioning glance at him, and so on. All these things were so many signposts to the eager mind. Tressor felt again his own keen interest as to what that mind would do. And so he had at last asked his question. "Well," he had said, "and what's the next move?"
"Ah!" said Paul, and leant up against the open window-frame all at once, very still.
"I'm only twenty-one," he said at last.
Tressor turned the statement over. Then he understood. "Two years before you can be ordained," he said.
"Yes, thank God," said Paul, sincerely.
"Oh! Has it come to that?"
Paul's restlessness fell on him again, like a mantle. He straightened himself, thrust his hands into his pockets, looked round, and flung himself into a chair. "I suppose I've known it all the term," he said, "but I've never realised it till now."
Tressor laid down his pen and leaned back. He was frankly curious. The term had been so busy for both of them that this was the first vital conversation, although, at odd intervals, he had thought a good deal about the boy. Thus he knew of the visit to Thurloe End, but not of any details. He knew of conflicts, not of decisions, if there had been any.
"Yes," said Paul, "it has. I know one thing. I cannot be ordained in the Church of England unless my mind changes a great deal between this and then."
"That is odd to me," said Tressor meditatively. "That is one of the things I could do."