Bradwell and this girl had a row in the shrubbery at the back of the chapel, and I, being in the gardener’s potting-shed at the time, feeding a cattipiller of mine, heard it. Bradwell said: “I’m not blind, Mabel, I’ve seen it going on ever since last term. You read his beastly books, and leave rosebuds with scented verbena leaves round them in that stone urn at the gate when he comes down from his house to class.” And she said: “And why shouldn’t I? You must remember, please, that I am my own mistress. Besides, the intelligents of a grown-up man is very refreshing.” For some reason Bradwell didn’t like this. His voice squeaked up into his head in a rather rum way when he answered: “D’you call _him_ a man? He hasn’t got a muscle on him; and he doesn’t know more than enough to teach the kids.” “That’s merely mean jellousy,” said Mabel. “Of course, he doesn’t talk to _you_, or show you what is in him. But he tells me all about his secret life, and very butiful it is. He is a jenius, in fact.” “If it comes to that, what can he do?” said Bradwell, awfully clevverly. “Can he draw?” “No, he doesn’t draw.” “Oh! can he sing?” “No.” “Can he play the piano?” “No.” Now all of these things Bradwell could do to perfecksun, so he got cheerfuller and cheerfuller. “What _can_ he do, then, besides jaw the kids and always sneak to the Doctor?” “I never saw such jellousy as this,” said Mabel; “but if you must know I’ll tell you what he can do: he can write poetry out of his own head, and he has got a solid book of it reddy to print some day--there!” I suppose Bradwell couldn’t write poetry. Anyway, he got very down in the face at this. He didn’t say anything--appeering to be frightfully shocked at what he’d heard. Then Mabel said: “When you can quote Browning and Byron and Shelley, and write poems yourself, it will be soon enough to sneer at Mr. Browne.” “You love him,” said Bradwell, in a very tragik voice. “I don’t love anybody but my own family,” said Mabel; “but I admire him, and I admire his poetry, which is very much out of the common indeed.” “It’s all over then, I suppose,” said Bradwell. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied to him. “A thing that has never begun can’t be all over”; which words of Mabel’s seemed to knock the heart out of Bradwell. Then the gardener came along, and I didn’t hear anything else. Of corse, I couldn’t _help_ hearing what I had done, though I tried hard not to, and kept feeding my catterpeller like anything all the time.