it nearer. But my dear boy—you must settle what you're going to do."
"How much has he read?"
"Naturally he only opened the book. From what you showed me of it, one glance would be enough."
"Did he open at the poems?"
"Poems?"
"Did he speak of the poems?"
"No. Were they about him?"
"They were not about him."
"Then it wouldn't matter if he saw them."
"It is sometimes a compliment to be mentioned," said Ford, looking up at me. The remark had a stinging fragrance about it—such a fragrance as clings to the mouth after admirable wine. It did not taste like the remark of a boy. I was sorry that my pupil was likely to wreck his career; and I told him again that he had better apologize.
"I won't speak of Mr. Worters' claim for an apology. That's an aspect on which I prefer not to touch. The point is, if you don't apologize, you go—where?"
"To an aunt at Peckham."
I pointed to the pleasant, comfortable landscape, full of cows and carriage-horses out at
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