“It’s a nice cat,” said Jack; “at least I like it in your rooms.  I wouldn’t have one in my rooms, not if I were paid for it—­it would be what the Master calls a serious responsibility.”  Presently, after a moment’s silence, Jack said, “It’s rather convenient to be related to a don, I think.  By the way, what sort of screw do they give you—­I mean your income—­I suppose I oughtn’t to ask?”

“It isn’t usually done,” said Howard, “but I don’t mind your asking, and I don’t mind your knowing.  I have about six hundred a year here.”

“Oh, then I was right,” said Jack.  “Symonds said that all the dons had about fifteen hundred a year out of the fees; he said that it wouldn’t be worth their while to do it for less.  But I said it was much less.  My father only gets about two hundred a year out of his living, and it all goes to keep me at Cambridge.  He says that when he is vexed about things; but he must have plenty of his own.  I wish he would really tell me.  Don’t you think people ought to tell their sons about their incomes?”

“I am afraid you are a very mercenary person,” said Howard.

“No, I’m not,” said Jack; “only I think one ought to know, and then one could arrange.  Father’s awfully good about it, really; but if ever I spend too much, he shakes his head and talks about the workhouse.  I used to be frightened, but I don’t believe in the workhouse now.”

When luncheon was over, they went back to the other room.  It was true that, as Jack had said, Howard managed to make something pleasant out of his rooms.  The study was a big place looking into the court; it was mostly lined with books, the bookcases going round the room in a band about three feet from the floor and about seven feet high.  It was a theory of Howard’s that you ought to be able to see all your books without either stooping or climbing.  There was a big knee-hole table and half a dozen chairs.  There was an old portrait in oils over the mantelpiece, several arm-chairs, one with a book-rest.  Half a dozen photographs stood on the mantelpiece, and there was practically nothing else in the room but carpets and curtains.  Jack lit a cigarette, sank into a chair, and presently said, “You must get awfully sick of the undergraduates, I should think, day after day?”

“No, I don’t,” said Howard; “in fact I must confess that I like work and feel dull without it—­but that shows that I am an elderly man.”

“Yes, I don’t care about my work,” said Jack, “and I think I shall get rather tired of being up here before I have done with it.  It’s rather pointless, I think.  Of course it’s quite amusing; but I want to do something real, make some real money, and talk about business.  I shall go into the city, I think.”

“I don’t believe you care about anything but money,” said Howard; “you are a barbarian!”

“No, I don’t care about money,” said Jack; “only one must have enough—­what I like are real things.  I couldn’t go on just learning things up till I was twenty-three, and then teaching them till I was sixty-three.  Of course I think it is awfully good of you to do it, but I can’t think why or how you do it.”