He had not been there long when Reggie came in, and as the Babe was not disposed to talk, and merely grunted when he was sat on, he got out a new book called _Gerald Eversley’s Friendship_, and proceeded to read about the peculiarities which mark the boys at St. Anselm’s. A short silence. “Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy,” quoted the Babe. “Look here, Babe.” “Well.” “Harry Venniker produces from the bottom of his box a quantity of sporting prints, and an enormous stag’s head--a ‘royal’ he called it. Did you ever see a play-box that size?” “No. There isn’t one. ‘My dear, there is going to be a collection, and I have left my purse on the piano.’ I wish I knew Flora.” Silence. “‘After all, in this life the deepest, holiest feelings are inexpressible.’ Oh, I draw the line somewhere--” “Yes, if you don’t draw the line somewhere,” murmured the Babe, “where are you to draw the line?” “Gerald of course sobs violently on getting into bed, the first night at St. Anselm’s, and Harry puts his hand on his shoulder, and says he’ll be his friend for ever. Then ‘Gerald laid his head anew upon the pillow, and was at peace.’ Good Lord! This was an ‘incident of which the pale moon, throned in heaven, was the sole arbitress.’ He says so,” shouted Reggie, “and it is a ‘study in real life.’ He says that too, on the title-page, in capital letters. He says it very loud and plain, several times.” The Babe chuckled comfortably, and shut up _Ravenshoe_. “I read it yesterday,” he said. “Turn on to about page 90 or so. I think you’ll find the passage marked in pencil. He has to sing a song in which a swear-word comes, and when he gets to it, he breaks down, hides his face in his hands, and rushes from the hall.” Reggie’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. “So they propose to send him to Coventry for a month.” “That’s the place my governor is member for,” remarked the Babe, “and they make bicycles there.” “The little brute--aged thirteen, Babe, about as old as you,” continued Reggie, “reads books of science (particularly archæology), even sermons and books of controversial divinity, in the college library. If that is real life, give me fiction.” “Quite a little Zola,” said the Babe, “our new, harmless, English realist. A little later on a churchyard becomes an element in Gerald’s life. Are churchyards elements in your life, Reggie?” “Yes, of course.” “Later on again,” continued the Babe, “he gets in a row for cribbing. The author gets hold of such wonderfully new and original situations. The evidence against him is overwhelming, absolutely overwhelming, and the mystery is never cleared up. As you read, your suspense is only equalled by the suspense of the author. He finds it almost unbearable.” “I can’t read any more,” said Reggie. “Tell me what happens.”