Dale fidgeted in his chair, and relit the pipe, which had gone out. He was much too perturbed to give to the filling of it the attention that operation needs.
"I suppose he'll be rich, and a swell, and all that," he went on.
"No doubt—but not a Victorian poet."
"Don't be a fool!"
"I meant it kindly. Some girls like poets."
"They were awfully kind about 'Amor Patriæ' at the Grange to-night."
"Oh, you've been there?"
"You know I have. Ripley was there. I don't think I care much about him, Phil."
"Don't you? Does he like you?"
Dale laughed as he rose to go to bed.