“I don't play cricket, I have not learned,” replied Louis.
“And you never will,” rejoined Reginald, “if you don't make a beginning: I'll teach you—now put away that stupid book.”
“Stupid!” said Louis. “It's Coleridge, that mamma promised to read to us.”
“I hate poetry,” exclaimed Reginald; “I wonder how anybody can read such stuff. Give me the book, Louis, and come along.”
“No, thank you, I'd rather not.”
“What a donkey you are!” said Meredith: “why don't you learn?”
“Perhaps my reputation may be the safer for not divulging my reasons,” said Louis, archly: “it is sufficient for present purposes that I had rather not.”
“Rather not—rather not,” echoed Meredith: “like one of your sensible reasons.”
“He has refused to give them, so you cannot call that his reason, Meredith,” remarked Reginald; “but let us be off, as Louis won't come.”
Away they ran, and after looking at them for a minute, Louis turned off his own way, but it was destined that he should not read the Ancient Mariner that day, for he was presently interrupted by little Alfred Hamilton, who pounced upon him full of joy.