'Rot,' said Pringle, 'the Bishop isn't that sort of chap.'
'You can't tell. I say,' he broke off suddenly, 'have you done that poem yet?'
Pringle started. He had not so much as begun that promised epic.
'I—er—haven't quite finished it yet. I'm thinking it out, you know. Getting a sort of general grip of the thing.'
'Oh. Well, I wish you'd buck up with it. It's got to go in tomorrow week.'
'Tomorrow week. Tuesday the what? Twenty-second, isn't it? Right. I'll remember. Two days after the O.B.s' match. That'll fix it in my mind. By the way, your people are going to come down all right, aren't they? I mean, we shall have to be getting in supplies and so on.'
'Yes. They'll be coming. There's plenty of time, though, to think of that. What you've got to do for the present is to keep your mind glued on the death of Dido.'
'Rather,' said Pringle, 'I won't forget.'
This was at six twenty-two p.m. By the time six-thirty boomed from the College clock-tower, Pringle was absorbing a thrilling work of fiction, and Dido, her death, and everything connected with her, had faded from his mind like a beautiful dream.