"Is that the way you talk to each other?" said Violet.
"Very much the way."
"And does nobody take up the cudgels for the poor summer girl?" inquired Mr. Erskine.
"Oh, I'll take them up, if you wish," said Magnus. "My Idle does her justice," and he dashed off into a tune crazy enough for a patchwork quilt:
"I sing the song of the Summer Girl;
She feels for the lonely cadet.
Her chocolate creams, in my very dreams
I seem to taste them yet."
("N. B.—The last ones weren't fresh. Bought at the station probably.")
"The peaches she threw at my head at drill,
The apples she dropped at my feet;
The little pound cake that she made me take,
First biting, to make it sweet."
"Magnus—she didn't!"
"Rose—she did!"