’Not I. To tell you the truth, I’m not at all sorry to leave.  It was a mistake that I went in for the Arts course—­Greek, and Latin, and so on, you know; I ought to have stuck to science.  I shall go back to it now.  Don’t be afraid.  I’ll make a position for myself before long.  I’ll repay all you have spent on me.’

To this conclusion had he come.  The process of mind was favoured by his defeat in all the Arts subjects; in that direction he could see only the triumphant Chilvers, a figure which disgusted him with Greeks, Romans, and all the ways of literature.  As to his future efforts he was by no means clear, but it eased him greatly to have cast off a burden of doubt; his theorising intellect loved the sensation of life thrown open to new, however vague, possibilities.  At present he was convinced that Andrew Peak had done him a service.  In this there was an indication of moral cowardice, such as commonly connects itself with intense pride of individuality.  He desired to shirk the combat with Chilvers, and welcomed as an excuse for doing so the shame which another temper would have stubbornly defied.

Now he would abandon his B.A. examination,—­a clear saving of money.  Presently it might suit him to take the B.Sc. instead; time enough to think of that.  Had he but pursued the Science course from the first, who at Whitelaw could have come out ahead of him?  He had wasted a couple of years which might have been most profitably applied:  by this time he might have been ready to obtain a position as demonstrator in some laboratory, on his way perhaps to a professorship.  How had he thus been led astray?  Not only had his boyish instincts moved strongly towards science, but was not the tendency of the age in the same direction?  Buckland Warricombe, who habitually declaimed against classical study, was perfectly right; the world had learned all it could from those hoary teachers, and must now turn to Nature.  On every hand, the future was with students of the laws of matter.  Often, it was true, he had been tempted by the thought of a literary career; he had written in verse and prose, but with small success.  An attempt to compose the Prize Poem was soon abandoned in discouragement; the essay he sent in had not been mentioned.  These honours had fallen to Earwaker, with whom it was not easy to compete on such ground.  No, he was not born a man of letters.  But in science, granted fair opportunity, he might make a name.  He might, and he would!

On the morrow, splendour of sunshine drew him forth to some distance from the town.  He went along the lanes singing; now it was holiday with him, and for the first time he could enjoy the broad golden daylight, the genial warmth.  In a hollow of grassy fields, where he least expected to encounter an acquaintance, it was his chance to come upon Christian Moxey, stretched at full length in the company of nibbling sheep.  Since the dinner at Mr. Moxey’s, he had neither seen nor heard of Christian, who, it seemed probable, was back at his work in Rotherhithe.  As their looks met, both laughed.