They did, and the boy’s heavy eyes kindled as he was gradually induced to describe his former lessons. His governess had been one of the old school, severe and correct; she exacted absolute stillness and obedience, and led the weary feet of her small pupil along the dullest paths of old-fashioned learning. He used to learn by heart long passages of heavy history and geography books and repeat them to her with very little idea of their meaning. In the same way he would learn poetry, and repeat it, parrot-fashion. All lessons were beastly, he said, but poetry was not quite so beastly as others, because it had rhymes, and was not quite so hard to learn. But it never meant anything. You could tell a story better without worrying about rhymes, if that was all you wanted.
“But poetry’s gorgeous!” expostulated Billy, open-eyed.
“Aw, what’s gorgeous?” Rex demanded. “I never saw any sense in it.”
“But it is. Look at fighting yarns like ‘Horatius,’ and things like that!”
“Oh, I know that ‘Horatius’ thing. It’s one of the worst,” declared Rex, loftily—“there’s such miles of it.”
“Say a bit, Rex,” said Jean.
It was lesson-time, and they were all in the schoolroom. Rex began at once, obediently.
“But the Consul’s brow was sad.
And the Consul’s speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,