Michael shook his head.

When the others had gone to bed, he turned to her:

"Do you know, Mrs. Ross, I believe I could have prevented Prescott's
death. He began to talk about Stella, and I felt embarrassed and came
away."

"Oh, my dear Michael, I think you're probably accusing yourself most
unfairly. How could you have supposed the terrible sequel to your
dinner?"

"That's just it. I believe I did know."

"You thought he was going to kill himself?"

"No, I didn't think anything so definite as that, but I had an intuition
to ask him to come away with me, and I was afraid he'd think it rather
cheek and, oh, Mrs. Ross, what on earth good am I? I believe I've got
the gift of understanding people, and yet I'm afraid to use it. Shall I
ever learn?"

Michael looked at Mrs. Ross in despair. He was exasperated by his own
futility. He went on to rail at himself.

"The only gift I have got! And then my detestable self-consciousness
wrecks the first decent chance I've had to turn it to account."

They talked for some time. At first Mrs. Ross consoled him, insisting
that imagination affected by what had happened later was playing him
false. Then she seemed to be trying to state an opinion which she found
it difficult to state. She spoke to Michael of qualities which in the
future with one quality added would show his way in the world clear and
straight before him. He was puzzled to guess at what career she was
hinting.

"My dear Michael, I would not tell you for anything," she affirmed.

"Why not?"

"Why not? Why, because with all the ingenuous proclamations of your
willingness to do anything that you're positive you can do better than
anything else, I'm quite, quite sure you're still the rather perverse
Michael of old, and as I sit here talking to you I remember the time
when I told you as a little boy that you would have been a Roundhead in
the time of the Great Rebellion. How angry you were with me! So what I
think you're going to do--I almost said when you're grown up--but I mean
when you leave Oxford, I shall have to tell you after you have made up
your own mind. I shall have to give myself merely the pleasure of
saying, 'I knew it.'"

"I suppose really I know what you think I shall do," said Michael
slowly. "But you're wrong--at least, I think you're wrong. I lack the
mainspring of the parson's life. Talk to me about Kenneth instead of
myself. How's he getting on?"

"Oh, he's splendid at five years old, b