“Arnold _would_,” said the other Arnold coldly.
“But—but Dr. Arnold was surely a great man, wasn’t he?”
This time David’s voice was unmistakably timid.
“Was he? That’s the question,” said Arnold.
A few years ago Dick would have had no hesitation in exclaiming indignantly, “A great man? I should just think he _was_!” Why, he had called his only son after him, in spite of the Doña’s marked preference for Maria-José. But recently his children had insisted on his reading a small biography of Dr. Arnold that has since become a classic; very unwillingly had he complied, as he had expected it to be like Carlyle’s _Heroes and Hero-Worship_, which his sister, Joanna, had made him read in his youth, and which he had secretly loathed; but he had been pleasantly surprised, and had found himself at the end in complete agreement with the writer.
“Well, _I_ think old Arnold was quite right,” laughed Rory. “I’m sure it’s most awfully important to read ... who did you say, Munroe? Aristotle? Fancy not reading Aristotle! Rotten hole, Cambridge!”
David grinned with such perfect good-nature at this chaff, that the atmosphere perceptibly warmed in his favour.
“Oh, well; I dare say there’s a good deal to be said for Oxford,” said Dick magnanimously.
“Oh, of course! Oxford shoes; Morris-Cowley cars, summing up the whole of the Oxford movement ... namely, Cowley Fathers and the Preraphaelites!” shrieked Guy.
“Or the ‘Oxford’—the music-hall, you know,” suggested Rory.
Then port wine began to come into its own.
There is a certain type of story with but little plot and the crudest psychology, to appreciate which—as in the case of the highest poetry—one must have a love of _words_—for their own sake.
“... and she thought the toast was ‘_Church_ and Birmingham’!” ended Guy in a shrill scream.
Rory and Arnold chuckled; Dick shook convulsively, and a little sheepishly. After all, he _was_ much older than the others; besides, he was afraid that his plate might slip down. He was very fond of his plate, and much enjoyed clicking it into place, like the right piece in a jig-saw puzzle; nevertheless, he would die of humiliation if it slipped down before Arnold.
Story followed story; with each one, the laughter growing louder and more satyr-like (even David was smiling gravely); and it was on the best of terms that the five entered the billiard-room, where, if there were men, it was the custom at Plasencia to assemble after dinner.