The Chronicles of Clovis
This time Clevis's self-control broke down badly.
"Please excuse me," he gurgled, "but I can't help it when I remember the awful solemnity of that article of yours that you so kindly read us last night, on the Coptic Church in its relation to early Christian worship."
Septimus groaned.
"You see how it would be," he said; "as soon as people knew me to be the author of that miserable sentimental twaddle all respect for the serious labours of my life would be gone. I daresay I know more about memorial brasses than anyone living, in fact I hope one day to publish a monograph on the subject, but I should be pointed out everywhere as the man whose ditties were in the mouths of nigger minstrels along the entire coast-line of our Island home. Can you wonder that I positively hate Florrie all the time that I'm trying to grind out sugar-coated rhapsodies about her."
"Why not give free play to your emotions, and be brutally abusive? An uncomplimentary refrain would have an instant success as a novelty if you were sufficiently outspoken."
"I've never thought of that," said Septimus,
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