make something by it."

"I sent them these," said Lucian, "but they don't like them much."

"My dear boy! I should think not! Like them! What were you thinking of to
draw those queer stiff flowers all round the border? Roses? They don't
look like roses at all events. Where do you get such ideas from?"

"But the design is appropriate; look at the words."

"My dear Lucian, I can't read the words; it's such a queer old-fashioned
writing. Look how plain that text is; one can see what it's about. And
this other one; I can't make it out at all."

"It's a Latin hymn."

"A Latin hymn? Is it a Protestant hymn? I may be old-fashioned, but
_Hymns Ancient and Modern_ is quite good enough for me. This is the
music, I suppose? But, my dear boy, there are only four lines, and who
ever heard of notes shaped like that: you have made some square and some
diamond-shape? Why didn't you look in your poor mother's old music? It's
in the ottoman in the drawing-room. I could have shown you how to make
the notes; there are crotchets, you know, and quavers."

Miss Deacon laid down the illuminated _Urbs Beata_ in despair; she felt
convinced that her cousin was "next door to an idiot."

And he went out into the garden and raged behind a hedge. He broke two
flower-pots and hit an apple-tree very hard with his stick, and then,
feeling more calm, wondered what was the use in trying to do anything.