A remark of Margaret's that it was a splendid day for a picnic and that
the country looked nice gave him his opportunity.
'It reminds me,' he said, 'it reminds me strongly of the Island-Valley
of Avilion, where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever wind
blows loudly; but it lies deep-meadow'd, happy, fair, with orchard
lawns....'
He broke off here to squash a hornet; but Margaret had heard enough.
'Are you fond of the poets, Mr Mealing?' she said, with a far-off look.
'Me?' said Archibald fervently. 'Me? Why, I eat 'em alive!'
* * * * *
And that was how all the trouble had started. It had meant unremitting
toil for Archibald. He felt that he had set himself a standard from
which he must not fall. He bought every new volume of poetry which was
praised in the press, and learned the reviews by heart. Every evening
he read painfully a portion of the classics. He plodded through the
poetry sections of Bartlett's _Familiar Quotations_. Margaret's
devotion to the various bards was so enthusiastic, and her reading so
wide, that there were times when Archibald wondered if he could endure
the strain. But he persevered heroically, and so far had not been found
wanting. But the strain was fearful.
* * * * *
The early stages of the Cape Pleasant golf tournament need no detailed
description.
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