Eights Week was over.
CHAPTER X
OPEN DIAPASON
Six weeks later, in the musky fragrance of an August twilight, Gaveston sat on the rocky cliffs above Ploumenar’ch-lez-Quémouk. For there, in a charming old-world cottage of Breton gneiss, a brilliant reading party from Wallace, under Mongo’s supervision, had assembled for the vacation. He gazed out over the dark malachite waste of Atlantic waters, reflecting how successful his choice of a venue had proved, and hummed softly the third act of “Tristan und Isolde.”
“Dear old Wagner!” he murmured.
Discussion over the various possibilities had been lively one night in Mongo’s room during the Commemorative Week which so satisfactorily rounded off that marvellous summer term.
Mongo opted for Minorca, but Monty Wytham vetoed that as too Chopinesque.
“But my uncle might lend us a bothy at Tober-na-Vuolich,” ventured the Marquis of Kirkcudbright (Ch. Ch.), hexametrically enough. But his poetic ambitions and simple tastes were only too well known. There was an uncomfortable silence. He shuffled his feet.
“Connemara?” put in Monty, after a moment’s reflection.
“Or the Lizard?” queried Peter Creek.