"You won't laugh?" said Bones.
"Don't be an ass. Of course I won't laugh, unless they're supposed to be comic," said Hamilton. And, to do him justice, he did not so much as twitch a lip, though Bones watched his face jealously.
So imperturbable was Hamilton's expression that Bones had courage to demand with a certain smugness:
"Well, old man, not so bad? Of course, they don't come up to Kipling, but I can't say that I'm fearfully keen on Kipling, old thing. That little one about the sunset, I think, is rather a gem."
"I think you're rather a gem," said Hamilton, handing back the proofs.
"Bones, you've behaved abominably, writing poetry of that kind and
leaving it about. You're going to make this girl the laughing-stock of
London."
"Laughing-stock?" snorted the annoyed Bones. "What the dickens do you mean, old thing? I told you there are no comic poems. They're all like that."
"I was afraid they were," said Hamilton. "But poems needn't be comic," he added a little more tactfully, as he saw Bones's colour rising, "they needn't be comic to excite people's amusement. The most solemn and sacred things, the most beautiful thoughts, the most wonderful sentiments, rouse the laughter of the ignorant."
"True, true," agreed Bones graciously. "And I rather fancy that they are a little bit on the most beautiful side, my jolly old graven image. All heart outpourings you understand—but no, you wouldn't understand, my old crochety one. One of these days, as I've remarked before, they will be read by competent judges … midnight oil, dear old thing—at least, I have electric light in my flat. They're generally done after dinner."
"After a heavy dinner, I should imagine," said Hamilton with asperity.
"What are you going to do about it, Bones?"
Bones scratched his nose.