A day or so later Wilson was busy translating for Merishall--carefully
putting "songs" whenever he spotted "_carmina_"--when he heard Grim
flying upstairs, and when the poet had smashed into the room, he held up
a letter.
"It's come," he gasped.
Wilson laid down his pen and said, "Wait till you're cool, and then read
it out."
This is the letter _in extenso:_--
"Biffen's, Wednesday.
"DEAR GRIM,
"I don't think you'll ever be a poet, at least not a great one. I
believe I could give you the Latin for most of the lines you have
written: they are so dreadfully like the translations of my
school-books, and it isn't very flattering when one has to put up with
second-hand compliments several thousand years old, is it? But I am very
glad that you think my good opinion of any value to Biffen's, for I
should dearly like to see our house top of the school this year, and how
can it be when one, who ought to be in the House Eleven, gives up all
his time to writing 'poetry' instead of playing cricket? I hope you will
not be very vexed with me for writing this, but I know you would prefer
me to be
"Yours very sincerely,
"HILDA E. VARLEY.
"P.S.--If I see you admiring the sunsets or the rose-bushes when you
ought to be at the nets, I know I shall titter ... even if Miss Langton
be with me.
"H.E.V."
Grim struggled through this to the bitter end. Wilson made the very roof
echo with his howls of unqualified delight, but Grim's face was
uncommonly like that sunset he admired so much.
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