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 "when you'll be able to go walking tours in knickerbockers and a tweed cap."

"No, I sha'n't," said Mr. Tetteridge. "I shall be a married man. There'll be children, most likely. We shall go for a month to the seaside and listen to niggers. The children will clamour for it. I shall never escape from children all my life, and I'll never get away from Millsborough. I shall die here, an honoured and respected citizen of Millsborough. Do you know what my plan was? I'd worked it all out? Wandering about the world like Oliver Goldsmith, with my fiddle. Earning my living while I tramped, sleeping under the stars or in some village inn, listening to the talk and stories; making sketches of odd characters, quaint scenes and places; sitting by the wayside making poetry. Do you know, Tony, I believe I could have been a poet—could have left a name behind me."

"You'll have your evenings," argued Anthony. "They'll all go at four o'clock. You can write your poetry between tea and supper."

To Irene of the Ringlets, suggested Tetteridge. God and the Grasshopper,' 'Ode to Idleness.' What do you think the parents would say? Besides, they don't come between tea and