"I've read that!"
"What?"
"The star-dust book—but I've picked out two others of his. May I? All these?"
Clare ran her finger along the titles.
"Yes—yes—Fiona Mcleod—yes—Peer Gynt—yes, if you like, you won't understand it, or Yeats—but all right. No, not Nietzsche! Not on any account, Louise."
Louise protested.
"Oh, why not, Miss Hartill? I'm nearly fourteen."
"Are you really?" said Clare, with respect.
"He looks so jolly—Old Testamenty——"
"He does, Louise! That's his little way. But he's not for the Upper Fifth."