The Babe would swallow convulsively, choke, blush, and finally say--

'No, not much.'

'Ah!' This in a tone of pity not untinged with scorn.

'When you say "not much", Mr MacArthur, what exactly do you mean? Have
you read any of his poems?'

'Oh, yes, one or two.'

'Ah! Have you read "Pippa Passes"?'

'No, I think not.'

'Surely you must know, Mr MacArthur, whether you have or not. Have you
read "Fifine at the Fair"?'

'No.'

'Have you read "Sordello"?'

'No.'

'What _have_ you read, Mr MacArthur?'

Brought to bay in this fashion, he would have to admit that he had read
'The Pied Piper of Hamelin', and not a syllable more, and Miss Beezley
would look at him for a moment and sigh softly. The Babe's subsequent