Two hours did Dickie take for that errand, and I began to think that perhaps my joking had been unwise.
Dickie now entered upon a chronic state of being "togged up." He treasured faded flowers, raising hue and cry because the maid threw out a wilted peony which he had enshrined in a vase on his chiffonier.
Once he almost fell into the river rescuing an envelope which had slipped from his pocket. The treasure it contained seemed to be a lock of dark hair. His spending money went for fancy chocolates, which I did not see him eat.
Such were the beginnings of this tremendous affair.
Very gentle and serious Dickie became in these days, moods new to him. Also he took to reading poetry.
Scott's "Marmion," about the only piece of verse with which he had been on speaking acquaintance, he abandoned for fragments of "Locksley Hall" and "Lucille." His musical taste underwent like change. The rollicking college airs he was accustomed to whistle with more vigor than accuracy gave place to "Tell Me, Pretty Maiden," and "Annie Laurie.
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