I am not
quite certain why he delayed so long. Perhaps he had waited until his
gift of song had matured so that the offering might be worthy of the
shrine, or perhaps because he had exhausted all other exalted subjects
for his muse, but anyhow, he sent Miss Varley an ode on her birthday.
This day was pretty generally known amongst Biffen's fags.
When he had finished he read it to Wilson, who unbent from his
antagonistic attitude towards poetry when he heard the subject of the
verse.
"After all, Grimmy, it doesn't sound more rotten than Virgil, and it
_is_ rather swagger to say that Biffen's is to Hilda what Samnos was to
Juno. It's a jolly lot more, though."
Grim had cheerfully compared Miss Hilda to the queenly Juno, and said
that if she would give Biffen's her protection, the house would give the
other houses "fits" when the housers came round again; then he put in
something about her hair, unconsciously cribbed from Ovid; and something
about her walk--this I tracked to Horace; and wound up the whole farrago
by saying he was ready to be her door-mat and to shield her from the
furies, _etc_., which, I think, Grim genuinely evolved out of his own
effervescing breast. The ode was properly posted by the poet himself,
and even Wilson felt genuinely interested in the result. As for Grim, he
was so jolly anxious that he could not tackle any more poems, but
divided his time between ices at Hooper's and loafing round the
letter-rack for Hilda's answer.
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