"Wouldn't it be!" said the Idiot. "Unless I change my mind, I think I shall stay in this country until this style of greyhound is perfected. Then, gentlemen, I shall tear myself away from you, and seek knowledge in foreign pastures."
"Well, I am sure," said Mr. Pedagog—"I am sure that we all hope you will change your mind."
"Then you want me to go abroad?" said the Idiot.
"No," said Mr. Pedagog. "No—not so much that as that we feel if you were to change your mind the change could not fail to be for the better. A mind like yours ought to be changed."
"Well, I don't know," said the Idiot. "I suppose it would be a good thing if I broke it up into smaller denominations, but I've had it so long that I have become attached to it; but there is one thing about it, there is plenty of it, so that in case any of you gentlemen find your own insufficient I shall be only too happy to give you a piece of it without charge. Meanwhile, if Mrs. Pedagog will kindly let me have my bill for last week, I'll be obliged."
"It won't be ready until to-morrow, Mr. Idiot," said the landlady, in surprise.
"I'm sorry," said the Idiot, rising. "My scribbling-paper has run out. I wanted to put in this morning writing a poem on the back of it."
"A poem? What about?" said Mr. Pedagog, with an irritating chuckle.
"It was to be a triolet on Omniscience," said the Idiot. "And, strange to say, sir, you were to be the hero, if by any possibility I could squeeze you into a French form."