"He had only three
glasses of champagne and a liqueur: it was the liqueur--he was not
used to it. He got into the wrong set. You cannot in college belong
to the wild set without getting drunk occasionally."
"Perhaps not," I admitted. "In the book the wild young man drinks
without ever getting drunk. Maybe there is a difference between life
and the book. In the book you enjoy your fun, but contrive somehow
to escape the licking: in life the licking is the only thing sure.
It was the wild young man of fiction I was looking for, who, a
fortnight before the exam., ties a wet towel round his head, drinks
strong tea, and passes easily with honours. He tried the wet towel,
he tells me. It never would keep in its place. Added to which it
gave him neuralgia; while the strong tea gave him indigestion. I
used to picture myself the proud, indulgent father lecturing him for
his wildness--turning away at some point in the middle of my tirade
to hide a smile. There was never any smile to hide. I feel that he
has behaved disgracefully, wasting his time and my money."
"He is going to turn over a new leaf;" said Robina: "I am sure he
will make an excellent farmer."
"I did not want a farmer," I explained; "I wanted a Prime Minister.
Children, Robina, are very disappointing. Veronica is all wrong. I
like a mischievous child. I like reading stories of mischievous
children: they amuse me.
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