ady, Grim. Take time," said Wilson, squirming away from his chum.

"Wilson, you haven't any soul for beauty. A sunset is the loveliest
sight on earth, you duffer."

"Didn't know a sunset ever was on earth," said Wilson, sarcastically.

"Is that funny?"

"All serene, Grimmy," said Wilson, elaborately agreeing with his friend
as a mother might with a sick child. "Matter of fact, it is rather fine.
Not unlike a Zingari blazer, eh?"

"Zingari blazer!"

"Exactly like. And that pink on the trees would do for the Westminster
shirts."

"Blazers and shirts," cried Grim, in disgust. "Oh! get out."

"Let's get in, Grimmy, instead. You'd better see the doctor. 'Pon
honour, you aren't well."

"I can't help it," said W.E. Grim, resignedly, "if you haven't any soul.
Yes, I'll come. I've got Merishall's work."

There was a coolness that night between the two friends as they sat at
the opposite sides of their common table doing their work for Merishall,
and Wilson was determined to find out what was disturbing their
accustomed peace. He had soon done his modicum of prose and forthwith
broached matters.

"Let's have this business out, Grim. It will do you a lot of harm if you
keep it in."

"The fact is----" began Grim, hesitating.

"Allez! houp-la!" said Wilson, encouragingly.

"I'm going in strong for poetry."

For reply Wilson laughed as though his life depended on the effort, and
Grim turned a rich rosy hue. Wilson finally blurted out--

"Grim, you're an utter idiot."

"What do you think about it?"

"Nothing."

"I thought it would surprise you."

"It has, but nothing you do ever will again. Lord, Grimmy, was it for
this you chucked cricket and your chance of the house eleven?" Wilson
exploded again, uproariously. "I'll tell Rogers and Jack Bourne. You a
poet!"

"Why shouldn't I be, you silly cuckoo?"

"Why, you haven't got the cut of a poet, for one thing, and for another,
I believe, next to your mother, the thing you like best in the world is
a good dinner." Wilson waxed eloquent on Grim's defects from a poet's
standpoint. "Your hair is as stiff as any hair-brush; you can't deny
you're short and a trifle beefy; and was ever a poet made out of your
material and fighting weight?"

"That isn't criticism," said Grim, angrily.

"No," said Wilson, bitterly. "I don't pretend to that. They are a few
surface observations only. Just tell this to Rogers or even Cherry, and
watch 'em curl."

Wilson and Grim wen