"I have seen so many promising, brilliant lives wrecked simply on
account of this--not settling soon enough. My dear boy, you must
think. Consult your tastes if possible--but think. You have not a
moment to lose. The Bar, like your father?"

"Oh, I wouldn't like that at all."

"I don't mention the Church."

"Oh, Rickie, do be a clergyman!" said Miss Pembroke. "You'd be
simply killing in a wide-awake."

He looked at his guests hopelessly. Their kindness and competence
overwhelmed him. "I wish I could talk to them as I talk to
myself," he thought. "I'm not such an ass when I talk to myself.
I don't believe, for instance, that quite all I thought about the
cow was rot." Aloud he said, "I've sometimes wondered about
writing."

"Writing?" said Mr. Pembroke, with the tone of one who gives
everything its trial. "Well, what about writing? What kind of
writing?"

"I rather like,"--he suppressed something in his throat,--"I
rather like trying to write little stories."

"Why, I made sure it was poetry!" said Agnes. "You're just the
boy for poetry."