"Yes; as you know, I have a house to which I go occasionally. My friends sometimes consider it an unnecessary luxury since I'm only there two or three times a year. But it's rather a nice house, and it wants living in. It would do it good to have someone living in it and looking after it a little. There are some cottages, and some rough shooting, and a garden. I bought the place because of the garden; you'd like it. You might write poetry in it, and a play, or half a dozen, seeing how quickly you write. What do you say?"
He had talked slowly on to give Paul time. The boy's face was a study. Even then, he hardly took it in.
"Do you mean go—go—as your—your guest?" he stammered.
"No," said Tressor, "not exactly as my guest. Have some more coffee? You see, I want you to do some work. Go as my agent, let us say. My housekeeper will look after you, and be glad of it, and I'll give you a small salary. You'll keep yourself, and, I think, you'll write. To be honest, I think you'll write well."
"Oh, I say!" cried Paul, only when it came to the point he had nothing to say.
"I take it that's settled then?"
Words came with a rush. "I'd like it more than anything on earth. It would be absolutely too good to be true. I can't thank you enough. I—I——"
"Right, then. Thank me by writing good poetry. By the way, Manning is coming down with me in August; do you think you could join us, and remain on?"
"I must consult my father, of course," said Paul, "but I'm certain I can say yes. How perfectly too glorious. Oh, I say, you're just too good to me, sir."
"Let's go and smoke a cigarette in the Fellows' Garden."