At this point a hissing sound arose from the neighbourhood of the
fire.

"It _looks_," said my mother, "as if it were done."

"If you will hold the dish," said the grey man, "I think I can pour it
in without spilling."

Again I must have dozed.

"It depends," said the grey man, "upon what he is going to be. For
the classics, of course, Oxford."

"He's going to be very clever," said my mother. She spoke as one who
knows.

"We'll hope so," said the grey man.

"I shouldn't be surprised," said my mother, "if he turned out a poet."

The grey man said something in a low tone that I did not hear.

"I'm not so sure," answered my mother, "it's in the blood. I've often
thought that you, Luke, ought to have been a poet."

"I never had the time," said the grey man. "There were one or two
little things--"

"They were very beautiful," interrupted my mother. The clatter of the
knives and forks continued undisturbed for a few moments. Then