"I mean Maud isn't. I am, but that's another thing. You two wretched, whited sepulchres haven't got hold of the true inwardness of Maud's character. Your gross, assignating minds don't apprehend her. Maud is just one of those golden-haired, white-handed angels who go through life girthing up a man's ideals; who exist only in the imagination of elderly men like Maitland, who has never seen a woman in his life, and who does not know that unless they are imbeciles they draw the line at drivel like that letter. Bless her! _She's_ not going to suggest a meeting. He'll do that and enjoy doing it. Can't you see Maitland in his new role of ruthless pursuer--the relentless male? No more easy conquests for him, sitting in his college chair, mowing them all down like a Maxim as far as--Ely. He's got to _work_ this time. I tell you two miserable poltroons that this is going to make a man of Maitland. He's been an old woman long enough." "All I can say is," said Parker, ignoring the allusion to Ely, "that if the Almighty hasn't a sense of humour you will find yourself in a tight place some day, Barrett." My pen fails me to record the diabolical manner in which Barrett played with his victim. It would have been like a cat and mouse if you can imagine the mouse throwing his chest out and fancying himself all the time. Barrett inveigled Maitland into going to Farnham, and accounted somehow for Maud's non-appearance at the interview coyly deprecated by Maud, and consequently hotly demanded by Maitland. He actually made him shave off his moustache. Parker and I lost heavily on that. We each bet a fiver that Barrett would never get it off. It was a beastly moustache which would have made any decent woman ill to look at. It did not turn up at the ends like Barrett's elder brother's, but grew over his mouth like hart's tongue hanging over a well. You could see his teeth through it. Horrible it was. But you can't help how your hair grows, so I'm not blaming Maitland, and it was better gone. But we never thought Barrett would have done it. I must own my opinion of him rose. And he kept it up all through the long vacation with a pertinacity I should never have given him credit for. He took an artistic pride in it, and the letters were first rate. I did not think so at first; I thought them rather washy until I saw how they took. Barrett said what Maitland needed was a milk and water diet. He seemed to know exactly the kind of letter that would fetch a timid old bachelor. But it was not all "beer and skittles" for Barrett. He sorely wanted to make Maud stand up to him once or twice, and put her foot through his mild platitudes. He wrote one or two capital letters in a kind of rage, but he always groaned and tore them up afterward.