But Harry was scenting a sonnet of the most remarkable character. It might be called The Rivals, and would deal with a situation which the Omar Khayyam Club would certainly feel to be immensely “parful.”
“I suppose mother helped you, too?” he said.
This was Byronic, lacerating. She had to suffer as well as he ... there was a pungent line already complete. “But who had suffered as much as me?” was the refrain. There were thrills in store for the Omar Khayyam Club. After a sufficiency of yellow wine.
“Cousin Amy was away,” said Mrs. Evans. “She was staying at Cromer till just before my little dance. That is not far from Cambridge, is it? I suppose she came over to see you.”
Harry spared her, and did not press these questions. But enough had been said to show that she had broken faith with him. “Rivals” could suitably become quite incoherent towards the close. Incoherency was sometimes a great convenience, for exclamatory rhymes were not rare.
He smoothed the lank hair off his forehead, and tactfully changed the subject.
“And I suppose you are soon going away now,” he said. “I am lucky to have seen you at all. We are going to stop here all August, I think. My mother does not want to go away. Nor do I; not that they either of them care about that.”
Mrs. Evans’ slight annoyance with him was suddenly merged in interest.
“How wise!” she said. “It is so absurd to go to stay somewhere uncomfortably instead of remaining comfortably. I wish we were doing the same. But my husband always has to go to Harrogate for a few weeks. And he likes me to be with him. I shall think of you all and envy you stopping here in this charming Riseborough.”
“You like it?” asked Harry.