“Who should know better than you, young Oxford? Y' have got a hidache.”
“No, indeed.”
“Don't tell lies now. Ye can't deceive me; man, I've an eye like a hawk. And what's that ye're studying with her? Ovid, for a pound.”
“No; medicine; a treatise on your favourite organ, the brain, by one Dr. Whately.”
“He is chaffing you, doctor,” said Edward; “it is logic. He is coaching her; and then she will coach me.”
“Then I forbid the chaff-cutting, young Pidant. Logic is an ill plaster to a sore head.”
“Oh, 'the labour we delight in, physics pain.'”
“Jinnyus, Jinnyus;
Take care o' your carkuss,”
retorted the master of doggrel. “And that is a profounder remark than you seem to think, by your grinning, all of ye.”
Julia settled the question by putting away the book. And she murmured to Alfred, “I wish I could steal your poor dear headaches: you might give me half of them at least; you would, too, if you really loved me.”