"Really?—A school story, you mean?"
"Yes. You see—I feel—oh, well—there's a sort of atmosphere about the place, if you know what I mean—a rather wonderful sort of atmosphere. If somebody could only manage to express it in words they'd make rather a fine story, I should think."
Clanwell said: "Yes, I've known that atmosphere for a dozen years, but I'm quite certain I could never write about it. And you think you could?"
"I thought of trying, anyway, Millstead in summer-time—" Speed's voice quivered with rapture—"It's simply divine!"
"But you haven't seen it in winter-time yet. You can't write a story about one summer-term."
"No." Speed pondered, and said doubtfully: "No, I suppose not. It does sound rather arrogant, doesn't it, for me to talk of writing a school-story about Millstead after a few weeks at it, while you, after a dozen years, don't feel equal to the task?"
"When one is young and in love," declared Clanwell slowly, "one feels arrogant."
Speed laughed uproariously: it was as if Clanwell's remark had let loose a cataract of emotion in him. "You despise my condition a little, don't you?" he said.
"No," answered Clanwell, "I don't despise it at all: I just recognize it, that's all." He paused and began again: "I wonder if you'll let me speak to you a trifle seriously, Speed, without getting offended with me?"
"Of course I will. Fire away!"