mean death--death, rather than dishonour."

"That's nice," said Rickie, speaking to himself. "Any profession
may mean dishonour, but one isn't allowed to die instead. The
army's different. If a soldier makes a mess, it's thought rather
decent of him, isn't it, if he blows out his brains? In the other
professions it somehow seems cowardly."

"I am not competent to pronounce," said Mr. Pembroke, who was not
accustomed to have his schoolroom satire commented on. "I merely
know that the army is the finest profession in the world. Which
reminds me, Rickie--have you been thinking about yours?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

"Now, Herbert, don't bother him. Have another meringue."

"But, Rickie, my dear boy, you're twenty. It's time you thought.
The Tripos is the beginning of life, not the end. In less than
two years you will have got your B.A. What are you going to do
with it?"

"I don't know."

"You're M.A., aren't you?" asked Agnes; but her brother
proceeded--