Margaret never bantered. She had no battledore light enough to return an airy shuttlecock. Now, as always, when this plaything came buoyantly towards her she swiped it with heavy force clean out of the conversational field.
She said gravely: “Ah, I know what you mean. You mean that father ought to buy you a practice--ought to set you up when you are qualified. I can't discuss that, can I? It wouldn't be loyal.”
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.”
He smoothed the paper. She pressed against him; thrilled as she regarded the written lines. George begged her read. She would not--well, she would. She paused. Modesty and pride gathered on her cheeks, tuned her voice low. She read:
“So you have tried--So you have known The burning effort for success, The quick belief in your own prowess and your skill, The bitterness of failure, and the joy Of sweet success.”
“'Burning effort,'” George said. “That's fine!”
“I'm glad you like that. And 'quick belief'--you know what I mean?”
“So you have tried-- So you have known The blind-eyed groping towards the goal That flickers on the far horizon of Attempt, Gleaming to sudden vividness, anon Fading from sight.”
“Sort of blank verse, isn't it?” George asked.
“Well, sort of,” the poet allowed. “Not exactly, of course.”
“So you have tried-- So you have known The bitter-sweetness of Attempt, The quick determination and the dread despair That grapple and possess you as you strive For imagery.”