“It’s just horrid, old man!” he exclaimed one morning, after half-an-hour’s study, thrusting his long fingers through his fair hair. “I’m awfully sorry for you having to grind away at it.”
“But I like it!” said Mark, mind and eyes deep in his geometry. “Just listen, Gilbert. I do think I see another solution.”
“Another solution!” cried Gilbert, in despair. “Just as if one was not enough.”
“But it’s so interesting,” persisted Mark. “If you’d only give your mind to it, I’m sure you’d like it; it is so pretty.”
“Where’s the good? I’m not going in for a don. I shall scrape through when the time comes, never fear. Hullo! There’s St. Maur and Tullietudlem in a tandem. Splendid, isn’t it? How will Tullie ever get that wild filly of his round the corner? There! I knew it. Down goes the old woman—wagon, Tullie, and St. Maur on the top of her. There’ll be a row!”
“They’ll have something to pay, at all events,” said Mark, looking up, but still deep in his problem.
“Never a bit. A sovereign to the old woman. She’s used to it. Nothing will ever teach Tullie to handle the ribbons. Never could at Eton; and his sister’s such a splendid whip. I wonder where they were going to! Newmarket, perhaps. St. Maur’s uncle is running a two-year-old. O, bother, Mark! I can’t be worried now. The very look of those figures makes me sick! I shall get up enough to scrape through, never fear. I’m strong in classics.”
“All right, old fellow,” said Mark, shutting up his book. “Then you won’t want me. Tell me if you do, you know. I’ll come in any day.”
“Thanks, a thousand times. It is no good working against the grain, is it? My head is all in a whirl with that stupid geometry.”
Internally wondering at the stupefying effect of the geometry he had not done on his cousin’s brain, but too happy to escape to his own quiet room, Mark Fenner ran with the speed of a lover across the familiar flags, and buried himself until lunch time in his favourite study.