"Love—and mince pie, sir."
Magnus scolded his friend, fought him, jeered him; then tried other measures.
The days were softening and lengthening, with grass and flowers on the jump. Visitors were arriving in numbers; and for Magnus had come, from away across the continent, a bunch of snowdrops in Cherry's last letter. Somehow his own great happiness made the young cadet anxious for his friend.
"Look here, Trent," he said one day to another classmate, "can't you pitch in and spoon that Curry girl? Rig will be ruined."
"Spoon her yourself."
"Haven't time. One more will make no difference to you."
"Thanks. Rig will put a bullet in my head, if he suspects."
"Well, your brain always did need fresh air," said Magnus, "so that will fit. Why, to-day, in the section room, Hammer asked him the colour of old red sandstone,—and Rig answered:
"Ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Trent. "But isn't this rather a queer business to be talked up by our high and mighty magnate of the tender conscience? The man who keels over at the mere sight of a 'pony.'"