Good Books

"I assure you, Miss Gueldmar, I am not pretending in the least. I'm no
scholar. Errington is, if you like! If it hadn't been for him, I should
never have learned anything at Oxford at all. He used to leap over a
difficulty while I was looking at it. Phil, don't interrupt me,--you
know you did! I tell you he's up to everything: Greek, Latin, and all
the rest of it,--and, what's more, he writes well,--I believe,--though
he'll never forgive me for mentioning it,--that he has even published
some poems."
"Be quiet, George!" exclaimed Errington, with a vexed laugh. "You are
boring Miss Gueldmar to death!"
"What is _boring_?" asked Thelma gently, and then turning her eyes full
on the young Baronet, she added, "I like to hear that you will pass your
days sometimes without shooting the birds and killing the fish; it can
hurt nobody for you to write." And she smiled that dreamy pensive smile,
of hers that was so infinitely bewitching. "You must show me all your
sweet poems!"
Errington colored hotly.


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