She laughed her tinkling laugh, which was delicious music in Fred's ears. He laughed too, but did not make the mistake of taking up her criticism of Horsham. "I heard something about that too," he said; "but I don't know any details either. I shouldn't think there could have been much in it. Naturally, Colonel Eldridge would have felt sore at his being criticized at all."
Norman had always kept off this subject, and would answer no questions about it. But he had never exonerated Hugo, though he had said that Jim was ass enough for anything. Norman was apt to be over-critical. He had nothing much to say in favour of Hugo, her own brother, who had been killed; he was contemptuous of Jim, who was only rather slow, and perhaps dull; and he was almost violent in his dislike of Fred, whom he hadn't seen for years. Of course he was head and shoulders above all three of them in everything that mattered, but perhaps he should have left it more to others to recognize that fact. At any rate, Fred was giving her something now which Norman withheld from her, and she was grateful for it.
Judith, left alone with Horsham, showed no disposition to regard herself in the light of a sacrifice. It seemed as if she really did take an interest in his statistics, and though she did not talk much herself her attention had the effect of drawing him out to be more informative than ever. "I do like to hear about real things," she said. "Such a lot that you read is so—so fluffy: do you know what I mean?"
"I suppose you mean poetry," he said.
"Well, I like some poetry; but it doesn't seem to be the sort that people who think they know call good poetry." She laughed at herself, the low musical laugh that was all her own. "Pam and Norman are always making fun of my tastes."
"Does Pamela like poetry?" Horsham asked, with a shade of anxiety.
"Oh, yes," she said, and a hint of mischief showed itself in her eyes. "Can you repeat any by heart?"
"Well, I don't know that I can, except the things I used to have to learn. I've never forgotten them. It seems as if I can't forget anything that I've once learnt. I could repeat 'The Wreck of the Hesperus,' which I learnt when I was five or six, I should think—you know, about the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company—I should think I could repeat that now, without a mistake."
The dark eyes were dancing with mischief now. "Oh, yes, I know it," she said. "It's lovely. And funnily enough it's one of Pamela's favourite poems, and Norman's too."