--"_The light of setting suns_"--began John-- "_And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that--_" A pillow landed on John's head. It was returned with redoubled energy. Vernley made a grand attack, John defending with a bolster. There was a frantic scuffle, the bed groaned, the electric light swung furiously, Vernley's pyjama coat was torn down the back and John was soon without a blanket or a sheet on his bed. Suddenly they were buried in a snowstorm of feathers that floated all over the room; the pillow case had split; it called for an armistice. John and Vernley subsided on the bed, silently watching the feather-laden atmosphere. "Lord! what a mess!" "We always seem to be smashing something in this room," said John ruefully--"last time it was the wash basin." "It's that infernal Wordsworth--there'll be nothing left now Ruskin's on the scene too." "Well--you shouldn't interrupt." "Do you think I'm going to lie still while you pour out that bosh?" "It isn't bosh--Mr. Ribble says--" "Ribble's an old fool--'a nonconformist crank swaddled in the longclothes of infantile ignorance'--that's what the Governor's opponent called him last election." The feathers had now settled. "What a mess!" said Vernley surveying the room. "I've got an idea! Open the door, Scissors!" Vernley threw open the two big windows and the draught thus created swept the feathers out on to the landing. The two boys followed and peered over the banisters as the white cloud slowly settled down into the hall below. At that moment the drawing-room door opened. "Father!--Just look at this--wherever--" came Mrs. Vernley's voice in amazement. "Shut the door, Scissors!" They rushed into the room, switched off the light and waited breathlessly. All was quiet again. "If you go on reading every author you're told about, there'll be nothing left in this house," said Vernley, "and I don't agree, of course, about that libel on old Ribble--he's a decent old boy. Good night, Scissors." II