Still, for all that he was a ridiculous creature, she
did, and hence it happened that Smugg, desiring to form a
furnishing fund, organized a reading party, which Gayford,
Tritton, Bird, and I at once joined.
Every morning at nine Smugg, his breakfast finished, cleared his
corner of the table, opened his books, and assumed an expectant
air; so Mary the maid told us; we were never there ourselves; we
breakfasted at 9.30 or 10 o'clock, and only about 11 did we clear
our corners, light our pipes, open our books, and discuss the
prospects of the day.
As we discussed them, Smugg construed in a gentle bleat; what he
construed or why he construed it (seeing that nobody heeded him)
was a mystery; the whole performance was simply a tribute to
Smugg's conscience, and, as such, was received with good-natured,
scornful toleration.
Suddenly a change came.
One morning there was no Smugg! Yet he had breakfasted--Mary and
an eggshell testified to that effect. He reappeared at 11.30,
confused and very warm (he had exceptional powers in the way
of being warm). We said nothing, and he began to bleat Horace.
In a minute of silence I happened to hear what it was: it
referred to a lady of the name of Pyrrha; the learned may
identify the passage for themselves. The next day the same thing
happened except that it was close on twelve before Smugg
appeared. Gayford and Tritton took no notice of the aberration;
Bird congratulated Smugg on the increased docility of his
conscience.
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