The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. "What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. CHAPTER VIII. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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