their blandishments and threats could not effect in the space of a
month, she did within four and twenty hours. I cannot account for this,
except on the supposition that little girls with long yellow hair and
pretty brown eyes, and a perambulating blush, create mighty earthquakes
in the breasts of rowdy fags. Miss Hilda Elsie Varley, being Biffen's
niece, had taken the house under her protection, was more rabidly
Biffenite than even Rogers, adored Acton, reverenced Worcester, and
appreciated Chalmers, but despised fags who weren't "training-on" for
one of her houses' various elevens. Her sentiments on these matters were
mysteriously but accurately known amongst Biffenite juniors.

Grim finally turned his poetical talents upon this young lady. 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.

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'