"Astonishing how dull you are occasionally for such a bright fellow," he said; "but, after the fashion of all ignoramuses, and as you don't know what that is, I declare you to be one after the old fashion. You need illustration. Now, listen."
Verty sat down tuning his violin, and looking at Mr. Roundjacket, with a smile.
"Felicity and bliss are things which spring from poetry and women; convertible terms, you savage, but often dissevered. Suppose, now, you wrote a great poem, and read it to the lady of your affections, and she said it was better than the Iliad of Homer,—how would you feel, sir?"
"I don't know," Verty said.
"You would feel happiness, sir."
"I don't think I would understand her. Who was Iliad, and what was
Homer?"
Mr. Roundjacket flourished his ruler, despairingly.
"You'll never write a poem, and you'll never be in love!" he said, with solemn emphasis.
"Oh, you are wrong!" said Verty, laying his violin on the desk, and caressing Longears. "I think I'm in love now, Mr. Roundjacket!"
"What?"