A few days later the term drew to an end, and both dons and
undergraduates, whose tempers had been wearing a little thin, got
suddenly more genial, like guests when a visit draws to a close,
and disposed to think rather better of each other.

Howard had made no plans; he did not wish to stay on at Cambridge,
but he did not want to go away: he had no relations to whose houses
he naturally drifted; he did not like the thought of a visit; as a
rule he went off with an undergraduate or two to some lonely inn,
where they fished or walked and did a little work. But just now he
had a vague feeling that he wanted to be alone; that he had
something to face, some reckoning to cast up, and yet he did not
know what it was.

One afternoon--the spring was certainly advancing, and there was a
touch of languor in the air, that heavenly languor which is so
sweet a thing when one is young and hopeful, so depressing a thing
when one is living on the edge of one's nervous force--he paid a
call, which was not a thing he often did, on a middle-aged woman
who passed for a sort of relation; she was a niece of his aunt's
deceased husband, Monica Graves by name. She was a woman of
independent means, who had done some educational work for a time,
but had now retired, lived in her own little house, and occupied
herself with social schemes of various sorts. She was a year or two
older than Howard. They did not very often meet, but there was a
pleasant camaraderie between them, an almost brotherly and sisterly
relation. She was a small, quiet, able woman, whose tranquil manner
concealed great clear-headedness and decisiveness. Howard always
said that it was a comfort to talk to her, because she always knew
what her own opinion was, and did what she intended to do. He found