“Do you remember giving me your coat one night, Tom?” she asked.
“Yes; you were so obstinate, too. You refused to put it on for a long time.”
They drove on in silence for a little way.
“Are you glad to get down here?” asked Tom.
“Yes, very. I’ve got so many people I know here. You see, Tom, I’m not very clever, and I do like little quiet everyday things to do. And I see more of you here. You’re always so busy in London. Ted’s here, too. He got here two days ago.”
“Why doesn’t he come as your father’s curate?” asked Tom.
“Well, he has all his Cambridge work to do. He can’t very well give up that. And yet I don’t know.”
“I think he’s right,” said Tom. “He is doing splendid work, I believe. It doesn’t interest me, personally, but I do believe it ought to be done.”
“Ted told me you always used to howl at him so for working at scholiasts or syntax or something.”
“I know I used. But after all if the world is ever going to reach perfection, you have to work up all lines perfectly. And he says that scribes are terrible fellows for scamping their work and making stupid mistakes; they must be shown up.”