But again father rose to the bait and burst forth in a panegyric on Milton which I suppose a scholar, if he knew shorthand, would have taken down on the spot, for I know it was marvellously clever. But Miss Donnithorne was a little pale when father had finished. Then he and she got up and went into the garden, and walked up and down; and Hermione took my hand and dragged me into the room with the stuffed birds, and flung herself on the sofa and burst into a peal of laughter.
“How rude you are!” I said. “What is the matter?”
“Oh, you are a genius, you greenest of green Dumps!” was her remark. “To think of your daring to oppose that stream of eloquence!”
“Well, you see, I know father, and I know that there are two subjects on which he can be wonderful; one is Sophocles and the other Milton.”
“I never heard of Sophocles,” said Hermione in her calmest tone.
“You never heard of Sophocles?” I said, for the temptation to crow over her was too great to be resisted. “Why, he was the greatest writer of the tragic muse that ever existed.”
“For goodness’ sake, Dumps—” Hermione pressed her hands to her ears. “If you talk like that I shall fly.”
“I don’t know him,” I said; “and what is more,” I added, “I never mean to. If you had a father like the Professor you’d hate the classics. But after Sophocles,” I continued, “the person he loves best is Milton. I haven’t read Milton, and I don’t mean to.”
“Oh, I suppose I shall have to read him,” said Hermione. “But poor, poor dear Grace! Does he always talk like that, Dumps?”
“He was particularly lucid to-day,” I said. “As a rule he is much more difficult to understand.”