“Greenfield,” said he, when shortly afterwards he met Oliver, “I owe your young brother an apology.”
“What on earth for?”
“I set him an examination paper to answer, which I’m afraid caused him some labour. Never mind, it was all for the best.”
“What, did that paper he was groaning over come from you? What a shame, Tony, to take advantage of a little beggar like him!”
“I’m awfully sorry, tell him; but I say, Greenfield, it’ll make a splendid paragraph for the Dominican. By the way, are you going to let me have that poem you promised on the Guinea-pigs?”
“I can’t get on with it at all,” said Oliver. “I’m stuck for a rhyme in the second line.”
“Oh, stick down anything. How does it begin?”
“‘Oh, dwellers in the land of dim perpetual,’”
began Oliver.
“Very good; let’s see; how would this do?—