persisted in calling him Mr MacArthur in a way that seemed somehow to point out and emphasize his youthfulness. She added it to her remarks as a sort of after-thought or echo.     

       'Do you read Browning, Mr MacArthur?' she would say suddenly, having apparently waited carefully until she saw that his mouth was full.     

       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 share in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no further onslaught, was not large.     

       One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, a series of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunch together alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when he was suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almost swooned.    

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