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Updated: May 19, 2025
"Invent something," said Gorworth. Since winning a prize for excellence in Scriptural knowledge at a preparatory school he had felt licensed to be a little more unscrupulous than the circle he moved in. Much might surely be excused to one who in early life could give a list of seventeen trees mentioned in the Old Testament. "What sort of thing?" asked Blenkinthrope, somewhat snappishly.
With this new human interest to absorb them the travelling companions were almost rude when Blenkinthrope tried to explain his contrivance for keeping vipers and peregrine falcons out of his chicken-run. Gorworth, to whom he unburdened himself in private, gave him the same counsel as heretofore. "Invent something." "Yes, but what?"
Nothing of interest comes my way, nothing remarkable or out of the common. Even the little things that I do try to find some interest in don't seem to interest other people. Things in my garden, for instance." "The potato that weighed just over two pounds," said his friend Gorworth. "Did I tell you about that?" said Blenkinthrope; "I was telling the others in the train this morning.
Gorworth had warned his neophyte that this would be the case, but the traditional enthusiasm of the neophyte had triumphed over discretion. "She was feeling rather drowsy, the effect probably of the champagne, which she's not in the habit of taking in the middle of the day." A subdued murmur of admiration went round the company.
"The fault is with the potato, not with us," said Gorworth; "we are not in the least interested in it because it is not in the least interesting.
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