"Oh, damn this," said Gordon. "I can't learn the stuff."
He flung the book down, and lay back watching the first rays of the sun flicker on the cold bronze of the Abbey.
"This has been a rotten term, you know," he said at last.
"Yes?" said Tester. He was engrossed in poetry.
"Well, I got into the deuce of a row with Chief, and I never got my House cap, and I've broken it off with Jackson."
Tester put down his book and sat up.
"Caruthers, you know you are wasting your time. Here are you with all your brilliance and your personality worrying only about House caps and petty intrigues, and little things like that. What you want to realise is that there is something beyond the aim of a Fernhurst career. You are clever enough; but poetry and art mean nothing to you."
"Oh poetry, that's all right for Claremont and asses like that, but what's the use of it?"
"Oh, use, use! Nothing but this eternal cry about the use of a thing. Poetry is the sort of beacon-light of man. What's wrong with you is that you've read the wrong stuff. It is all very well for a middle-aged man to worship Wordsworth and calm philosophy. But youth wants colour, life, passion, the poetry of revolt. Now look here, let me read you this, and then tell me what you think of it."
"Oh, all right. Is it long?"