“Yes, isn’t there! I’ve felt that myself so often.”
“Some poets are whales at epics and all that sort of thing, while others call it a day when they’ve written something that runs to a couple of verses, but where Tennyson had the bulge was that his long game was just as good as his short. He was great off the tee and a marvel with his chip-shots.”
“That sounds as though you play golf.”
“When I am not reading Tennyson, you can generally find me out on the links. Do you play?”
“I love it. How extraordinary that we should have so much in common. You seem to like all the things I like. We really ought to be great friends.”
He was pausing to select the best of three replies when the lunch bugle sounded.
“Oh dear!” she cried. “I must rush. But we shall see one another again up here afterwards?”
“We will,” said Sam.
“We’ll sit and read Tennyson.”
“Fine! Er—you and I and Mortimer?”