“Ought we to—”
“Ought we to what?”
“To pull his leg to such an extent? Isn’t it taking rather a—rather a—er responsibility?”
“Responsibility sits as lightly on me as dew upon the rose,” said Barrett. “You copy out that.”
Parker copied it out and Barrett went off to Farnham. A few days later he re-appeared. I was smoking in Parker’s room when he came in.
He sat down under the lamp, drew a fat letter from his waistcoat pocket, and read it aloud to us. It was Maitland’s answer.
It really was a ghastly letter, the kind of literary preachy rot which you read in a book, which I never thought people really wrote, not even people like Maitland, who seem to live in a world of shams. It was improving and patronising and treacly, and full of information, partly about the lectures, but mostly about himself. He came out in a very majestic light you may be sure of that. And at the end he begged her not to hesitate to write to him again if he could be of the least use to her, that busy as he undoubtedly was, his college work never seemed in his eyes as important as real human needs.
“He’s cribbed that out of a book,” interrupted Parker. “Newby the tutor in ‘Belchamber,’ who is a most awful prig, says those very words.”
“Prigs all say the same things,” said Barrett airily. “If Maitland read ‘Belchamber,’ he would think Newby was a caricature of him. He’d never believe that he was plagiarising Newby. The cream of the letter is still to come,” and he went on reading.
Maitland patted the higher education of women on the head, and half hinted at a meeting, and then withdrew it again, saying that some of the difficulties in her mind, which he recognised to be one of a high order, might be more easily eliminated verbally, and that he should be at Farnham during the vacation, but that he feared his stay would be brief, and his time was hopelessly bespoken beforehand, etc., etc.