s motor-car business is any good," Lonsdale was
saying, "I might be able in a year or two to compete with elderly
financiers. But my advice to you ..."

"You asked for my advice," said Michael, with a smile.

"I know I did. I know I did. But as you haven't ever been to see My
Mistake--the most absolutely successful musical comedy for years--why,
my dear fellow, I've been thirty-eight times!... and my advice to you is
'avoid actresses.' Oh, yes, I know it's difficult, I know, I know."

Lonsdale shook his head so often that the monocle fell on the floor, and
his wisdom was speechless until he could find it again.

Michael left him soon afterward, feeling rather sadly that the horizon
before him was clouding over with feminine forms. Alan would soon be
engaged to his sister. It was delightful, of course, but in one way it
already placed a barrier between their perfect intercourse. Maurice
would obviously soon be thinking of nothing but women. Already even up
at Oxford a great deal of his attention had been turned in that
direction: and now Lonsdale had Queenie. This swift severance from youth
by all his friends, this preoccupation with womanhood was likely to be
depressing, thought Michael, unless himself also fell in love. That was
very improbable, however. Love filled him with fear. The Abbe Prevost
that morning had expressed for him in art the quintessence of what he
knew with sharp prevision love for him would mean. He felt a dread of
leaving Oxford that quite overshadowed his regret. Here was shelter--why
had he not shaped his career to stay forever in this cold peace? And,
after all, why should he not? He was independent. Why should he enter
the world and call down upon himself such troubles and torments as had
vexed his youth in London? From the standpoint of moral experience he
had a right to stay here: and yet it would be desolate to stay here
without a vital reason, merely to grow old on the fringe of the
university. Could he have been a Fellow, it would have been different:
but to vegetate, to dream, to linger without any power of art to put
into form even what he had experienced already, that would inevitably
breed a pernicious melancholy. On the other hand, he might go to
Plashers Mead. He might almost make trial of art. Guy would inspire him,
Guy living his secluded existence with books above a stream. Whatever
occurred to him in the way of personal failure, he could on his side
encourage Guy. His opinion