Bradwell and this girl had a row in the shrubbery at the back of the chapel, and I, being in the gardener’s potting-shed at the time, feeding a cattipiller of mine, heard it. Bradwell said:
“I’m not blind, Mabel, I’ve seen it going on ever since last term. You read his beastly books, and leave rosebuds with scented verbena leaves round them in that stone urn at the gate when he comes down from his house to class.”
And she said:
“And why shouldn’t I? You must remember, please, that I am my own mistress. Besides, the intelligents of a grown-up man is very refreshing.”
For some reason Bradwell didn’t like this. His voice squeaked up into his head in a rather rum way when he answered:
“D’you call him a man? He hasn’t got a muscle on him; and he doesn’t know more than enough to teach the kids.”
“That’s merely mean jellousy,” said Mabel. “Of course, he doesn’t talk to you, or show you what is in him. But he tells me all about his secret life, and very butiful it is. He is a jenius, in fact.”
“If it comes to that, what can he do?” said Bradwell, awfully clevverly. “Can he draw?”
“No, he doesn’t draw.”
“Oh! can he sing?”