“But Mount Vesuvius didn’t spout till it overthrew Pompeii.”
“Murder!” cried Norman, “I forgot! It’s lucky you put me in mind. I must make a fresh beginning. There go my six best lines! However, it was an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and shades, and funny customers, which will do as well for my purpose. Ha! that’s grand about its being so much better than the vana gloria triumphalis—only take care of the scanning there—”
“If it was but English. Something like this:
“For what is equal to the fame
Of forgetting self in the aim?
That’s not right, but—”
“Ethel, Norman, what are you about?” cried Flora. “Do you mean to go to Cocksmoor to-day?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; “only I’ve lost my blue-edged handkerchief—Flora, have you seen it?”
“No; but here is your red scarf.”
“Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh! I finished a frock all but two stitches. Where is it gone? Go on, all of you, I’ll overtake you:
“Purer than breath of earthly fame,
Is losing self in a glorious aim.