you out, my father would see to that, I know, if I asked him. He thinks tremendously well of you. Do, for my sake."
Anthony shook his head. "I have thought about it," he said. "I'm afraid."
Edward stared at him. "What on earth is there to be afraid of?" he demanded.
"I'm afraid of myself," answered Anthony. "Nobody thinks it of me, I know; but I'd end by being a dreamer if I let myself go. My father had it in him. That's why he never got on. If I went to Oxford and got wandering about all those old colleges and gardens I wouldn't be able to help myself. I'd end by being a mere student. I've had to fight against it even here, as it is."
Edward and Betty were both listening to him, suddenly interested. The girl was leaning forward with her chin upon her hand. Anthony rose and walked to the window. The curtains had not been drawn. He looked down upon the glare of Millsborough fading into darkness where the mean streets mingled with the sodden fields.
"You don't understand what it means," he said. "Poverty, fear—all your life one long struggle for bare existence."
He turned and faced the softly-lighted room with its carved ceiling and fine Adams mantel-
