"Of course not. I don't ask you."

They moved towards the sound of the breakfast bell.

"You think," Margaret continued, "that father ought to buy you a
practice because your mother left him money for the purpose?"

"I know she left him nearly five thousand pounds for my education and
all that. I think I may have cost him three thousand, possibly four--
_so_ I think I am entitled to something, _but_ I shan't get it,
_therefore_ I don't worry. My hump is gone; in three months I shall be
gone. Forward: I smell bacon!"

Margaret smiled the wan smile of an invalid watching vigorous youth at
sport. Firmly she banged the shuttlecock out of sight.

"How bright you are!" she told him. "Look, here is a little poem I
wrote for you last night. It's about failure and success. Don't read
it now."

George was very fond of his cousin. "Oh, but I must!" he cried. "I
think this was awfully nice of you. He's not down yet. Let's sit on
this seat and read it together."

"Oh, not aloud. It's a silly little thing--really."

"Yes--aloud."

He smoothed the paper. She pressed against him; thrilled as she
regarded the written lines. George begged her read. She would not--