'Do you read Browning, Mr MacArthur?' she would say suddenly, having
apparently waited carefully until she saw that his mouth was full.
The Babe would swallow convulsively, choke, blush, and finally say--
'No, not much.'
'Ah!' This in a tone of pity not untinged with scorn.
'When you say "not much", Mr MacArthur, what exactly do you mean? Have
you read any of his poems?'
'Oh, yes, one or two.'
'Ah! Have you read "Pippa Passes"?'
'No, I think not.'
'Surely you must know, Mr MacArthur, whether you have or not. Have you
read "Fifine at the Fair"?'
'No.'
'Have you read "Sordello"?'
'No.'
'What _have_ you read, Mr MacArthur?'
Brought to bay in this fashion, he would have to admit that he had read
'The Pied Piper of Hamelin', and not a syllable more, and Miss Beezley
would look at him for a moment and sigh softly. The Babe's subsequent
share in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no further
onslaught, was not large.
One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, a
series of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunch
together alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when he
was suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almost
swooned. The lady's steady and critical inspection of his style of
carving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience of
carving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the name
of 'study-gorges', where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you took
hold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other,
and pulled.
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