"Well, of course, wherever I am I shall write. I can't help it. But could I make a living with my pen? I don't suppose so, and I can't ask my father for money. And even if I could, I doubt awfully if I could do occasional journalism."
Tressor shook his head emphatically. "Don't try," he said. "It's an impossibility for you, I should say—not your line at all."
Paul suddenly realised what a problem he was up against. He sighed. "It's awfully hard," he said. "I suppose I must teach."
"No," said Tressor, "not yet anyway. I want you to give your own literary taste a chance. Write poetry. Do another play—more carefully this time."
Paul smiled ruefully. In the Lent Term he had had an inspiration. Dropping his reading, cutting his lectures, burying himself in his rooms, he had begun and written a play. And Tressor had lectured him for the first, threatened dire things for the second, and finally and utterly turned down the last.
"I'd love to," said Paul, "but—I couldn't write a line in Claxted anyway."
"I know," said Tressor equably. "I don't suppose you could, and I'm not suggesting it. But what about Fordham?"
"Fordham?" queried Paul, puzzled.
The other nodded. "Fordham—my house."
"But—but——"