Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe,’
I said, and Walter wrinkled his forehead.
‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘I ought to know it, I expect, but I don’t. Poetry is another of the fringes for me. I’ve never had time for it.’
I was sorry I had used the quotation, for he looked vexed, and I had not meant to vex him.
I said:
‘It’s the Ode to a Grecian Urn. That’s what made me think of it—talking about urns.’
Walter grunted, and I realized that he did not know the Grecian Urn, but I couldn’t say, ‘It’s by Keats.’
Mr. Furze interposed.
‘Sebright is quite incorrigible,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like Grecian Urns, and he doesn’t like poetry. He will certainly not read a poem about a Grecian Urn.’
Walter shrugged his shoulders and gave a little laugh, and I felt it had not mattered after all.