“I might do that,” said Howard vaguely, “but I don’t want a change of work so much as a change of mind.  I have got suddenly bored, and I am a little vexed with myself.  I have always rather held with William Morris that people ought to live in the same place and do the same things; and I had no intention of being bored—­I have always thought that very feeble!  But I have fallen suddenly into the frame of mind of knowing exactly what all my friends here are going to say and think, and that rather takes the edge off conversation; and I have learned the undergraduate mind too.  It’s an inconsequent thing, but there’s a law in inconsequence, and I seem to have acquired a knowledge of their tangents.”

“I must consider,” said Monica with a smile, “but one can’t do these things offhand—­that is worse than doing nothing.  I’ll tell you what to do now.  Why not go and stay with Aunt Anne?  She would like to see you, I know, and I have always thought it rather lazy of you not to go there—­she is rather a remarkable woman, and it’s a pretty country.  Have you ever been there?”

“No,” said Howard, “not to Windlow; I stayed with them once when I was a boy, when Uncle John was alive—­but that was at Bristol.  What sort of a place is Windlow?  I suppose Aunt Anne is pretty well off?”

“I’m not very good at seeing the points of a place,” said Monica; “but it’s a beautiful old house, though it is rather too low down for my taste; and she lives very comfortably, so I think she must be rich; I don’t know about that; but she is an interesting woman—­ one of the few really religious people I know.  I am not very religious myself, but she makes it seem rather interesting to me—­ she has experiences—­I don’t quite know what they are; but she is a sort of artist in religion, I think.  That’s a bad description, because it sounds self-conscious; and she isn’t that—­she has a sense of humour, and she doesn’t rub things in.  You know how if one meets a real artist in anything—­a writer, a painter, a musician—­ and finds them at work, it seems almost the only thing worth doing.  Well, Aunt Anne gives me the same sort of sense about religion when I am with her; and yet when I come away, and see how badly other people handle it, it seems a very dull business.”

“That’s interesting,” said Howard musingly; “but I am really ashamed to suggest going there.  She has asked me so often, and I have sent such idiotic excuses.”

“Oh, you needn’t mind that,” said Monica; “she isn’t a huffy person.  I know she would like to see you—­she said to me once that the idea of coming didn’t seem to amuse you, but she seemed disposed to sympathise with you for that.  Just write and say you would like to go.”

“I think I will,” said Howard, “and I have another reason why I should like to go.  You know Jack Sandys, your cousin, now my pupil.  He is rather a fascinating youth.  His father is parson there, isn’t he?”