"It's a wonderful example of what the ancient Britons could do," he said grandiloquently, "and to my mind, I proves no mean standard of civilisation."
"Even in that age of barbarism," observed the poet enthusiastically, "they cultivated a love for the beautiful."
"Oh, bosh," said Dick irreverently, "they wanted something to knock the stuffing out of an enemy."
"Well, I think that sword could do it," remarked Pumpkin with a smile. "Suppose we try it on you, Dick."
"No, thanks," retorted that young gentleman, grimacing, "I'll agree without practical proof."
"I shall write an article on this," said Dr. Larcher, delicately balancing the sword in his hand. "Such a discovery will be a distinct gain to our knowledge of the aborigines of that dead and buried time of so long ago--_Eheu fugaces Postume labuntur anni_."
"It breathes the very spirit of the age," cried Ferdinand with an inspired air:
The age of Bronze, the age of Bronze Where Boadicea----
"Loved and sung," finished Dick. "I say old chap, you're cribbing from the Isles of Greece."
Whereupon Ferdinand entered into a lively discussion with Dick to prove that he had not plagiarised from Byron while Dick in reply mercilessly chaffed the unhappy poet with such success that he fled from the room, pursued by his laughing antagonist.
"What is the matter, Reggy?" asked Pumpkin, seeing how quiet Blake had remained, "anything wrong?"
"Oh no," he replied hastily, "but I was wondering how the Squire is this morning."
"You'd better go over and see, Blake," said the vicar, looking up. "I hope that strange doctor did him some good. By the way who is this doctor?"
"I don't know, sir," answered Blake, turning towards Dr. Larcher, "he said he was on a walking tour, and I fancy is a friend of Beaumont's."
"Birds of a feather," he said decisively. "I don't think much of Beaumont, Blake, and if this Dr. Nestley is his friend, I'm afraid he's not much good."
"My dear," replied her father emphatically. "I hope I am the last man in the world to speak ill of my fellow creatures, but I am afraid that Basil Beaumont is not a good man--you can hardly call him '_integer vitæ_,'--I knew him before he left the parish, and even then his nature was not all that could be desired, but now his worst traits of character have become developed in the pernicious atmosphere of London life, and as I am the guardian of three youths whose minds are naturally open to seductive influences it is but right that I should take a severe view of the matter; if Basil Beaumont became the companion of my pupils I should tremble for the result--_ille dies utramque ducet ruinam_."