"It's just struck me that it's rather hard on my hat!"
*CHAPTER XIII*
Denis was immersed, fathoms deep, in unutterable gloom. It was the
all-important day, at last. That morning he had risen in wild spirits.
"Don't believe my poor old essay is so bad after all! Anyhow, what's it
matter?"
At luncheon time he was still hilarious; at tea time down, down in the
depths. His thermometer had been very much like that in regard to his
speech, up and down, down and up, for the past week.
"It's tea time, Denis."
"All right." He glanced up from his notes with his eyebrows up, his
forehead wrinkled. "T'won't make any difference whether I go on reading
up or not--it's awful rot, anyway."
"It's grand," declared Sheila Pat, and the Pearl chattered his teeth
angrily at the enthusiastic squeeze she gave him.
"Don't lose heart, Denis, it's a fine speech," said Nell.
"It's stiff--stilted," he said, frowning.
She flushed; he had put her own secret fear into words.
"I'm quite sure you will get the prize," remarked Stewart, who had been
invited to tea. He spoke with deep earnestness; he had an intense
admiration for Denis.
But Denis sat glum and gloomy while they pressed bread and butter on
him, and Stewart made him a slice of French toast. Then suddenly he
looked up, and he burst out laughing.
"Oh, how you're all waiting on Sir Doldrums Gloomy-grump! Look at the
noble Stewart's flushed countenance, reddened in my unworthy service!
Not another word on literature! Let's forget that such things as
speeches exist!"