‘It’s Tennyson!’ he spluttered. ‘It’s the Poet Laureate!’
‘Then,’ said Armstrong, ‘the Poet Laureate’s a drivelling idiot, like his predecessor.’
‘What?’ Paul asked, underneath his breath. He had never listened to such blasphemy.
‘In my day,’ said Armstrong, ‘a poet laid a table for men to eat and drink at. We’d Sir Walter’s beef and bannocks, and puir young Byron’s Athol brose. Wha calls this mingling o’ skim milk an’ treacle the wine o’ the soul a poet ought to pour?
‘Scott and Byron!’ cried Paul, amazed out of all reverence. ‘Why, there’s more poetry in Tennyson’s little finger than in both their bodies.’
‘Hoots, man! hauld your silly tongue,’ cried his father.
‘Have you read “In Memoriam”?’ cried Paul.
‘No,’ returned Armstrong curtly, ‘I have not.’
‘Then,’ Paul stormed, ‘what’s your opinion good for?’
The old man’s eyes flashed, and he made a motion as if to rise. He controlled himself, however, and reached out a hand to the hob for the clay he had relinquished a minute or two before.