“Well, for that one, I don't think it matters: Cowley ain't much!” said Lestrange, throwing the volume on a table. “I remember once taking down the book, and trying to read some of it: I could not; it's the dullest rubbish ever written.”
“It's not so bad as that, sir!” answered Richard, and taking up the book he turned the leaves with light, practiced hand. “He was counted the greatest poet of his day, and no age loves dullness! Listen a moment, sir; I will read only one stanza.”
He had found the “Hymn to the Light,” and read:—
“First born of Chaos, who so fair didst come From the old Negro's darksome womb! Which when it saw the lovely Child, The melancholy Mass put on kind looks and smil'd.”
“I don't see much in that!” said Lestrange, as Richard closed the book, and glanced up expectant.
Richard was silent for an instant.
“At any rate,” he returned, “it is necessary to the understanding of our history, that we should know the kind of thing admired and called good at any given time of it: so our lecturer at King's used to tell us.”
“At King's!” cried Lestrange.
“King's college, London, I mean,” said Richard. “They have evening classes there, to which a man can go after his day's work. My father always took care I should have time for anything I wanted to do. I go still when I am at home—not always, but when the lecturer takes up any special subject I want to know more about.”
“You'll be an author yourself some day, I suppose!”