"That will do, mother," put in Mr. Kestern quickly. "The lad has been saved, as it were, out of the mouth of the lion. That is enough. Thank God, thank God. And when do you go to Fordham, Paul?"
Enthusiasm had died in the boy. "In August, father," he said heavily.
"For a year, Paul? You will be able to go to Ridley Hall afterwards?"
"I don't know, mother. Or at least—— It all depends, anyway."
"Mr. Tressor must take a great interest in you, dear. Shall we meet him? Your father and I would like to thank him for his great kindness to our boy."
"He is coming to lunch," said Paul. "Mrs. Roper is probably getting it ready now. Manning and Strether are coming too. It'll be a bit of a tight fit, but I think we can all squeeze in somehow."
It was two years since his parents had last been in his rooms. His father's first look was for the text. It hung there still, Paul having stubbornly refused to take it down. The man remembered that first prayer, and again saw the hand of God upon him for good. Then he espied the writing-desk; by this time it was a crucifix that hung there. He looked quickly away; it were best to say nothing. His wife took that cue from him. Besides, she had eyes for the oar that hung immense the length of the wall. "Is that your oar, dear?" she asked. "Did you row with it?"
Paul smiled. "No, mummie," he said with affectionate raillery, "I used it for a walking-stick."
She glanced at him incredulously. Then smiled. "You shouldn't laugh at me," she said. "Paul, where did you get the pictures!"
She was examining his prints. "Do you like them, mother?" he asked proudly.