’I am aware.  The master generally knows his ass’s crib, though I acquit you of any intention that way.  Can you suggest anything for egregius exul?  Only “egregious exile”?  I fear “egregious” is a good word ruined.  No!  You can’t in this case improve on Conington.  Now then for atqui sciebat quae sibi barbarus tortor pararet.  The whole force of it lies in the atqui.’

‘Although he knew,’ Winton suggested.

‘Stronger than that, I think.’

‘He who knew well,’ Malpass interpolated.

’Ye-es.  “Well though he knew.”  I don’t like Conington’s “well-witting.”  It’s Wardour Street.’

’Well though he knew what the savage torturer was—­was getting ready for him,’ said Winton.

‘Ye-es.  Had in store for him.’

‘Yet he brushed aside his kinsmen and the people delaying his return.’

‘Ye-es; but then how do you render obstantes?’

’If it’s a free translation mightn’t obstantes and morantem come to about the same thing, sir?’

’Nothing comes to “about the same thing” with Horace, Winton.  As I have said, Horace was not a journalist.  No, I take it that his kinsmen bodily withstood his departure, whereas the crowd—­populumque—­the democracy stood about futilely pitying him and getting in the way.  Now for that noblest of endings—­quam si clientum,’ and King ran off into the quotation: 

     ’As though some tedious business o’er
     Of clients’ court, his journey lay
     Towards Venafrum’s grassy floor
     Or Sparta-built Tarentum’s bay.

All right, Winton.  Beetle, when you’ve quite finished dodging the fresh air yonder, give me the meaning of tendens—­and turn down your collar.’

‘Me, sir? Tendens, sir?  Oh!  Stretching away in the direction of, sir.’

’Idiot!  Regulus was not a feature of the landscape.  He was a man, self-doomed to death by torture. Atqui, sciebat—­knowing it—­having achieved it for his country’s sake—­can’t you hear that atqui cut like a knife?—­he moved off with some dignity.  That is why Horace out of the whole golden Latin tongue chose the one word “tendens”—­which is utterly untranslatable.’

The gross injustice of being asked to translate it, converted Beetle into a young Christian martyr, till King buried his nose in his handkerchief again.

‘I think they’ve broken another gas-bottle next door, sir,’ said Howell.  ‘They’re always doing it.’  The Form coughed as more chlorine came in.

‘Well, I suppose we must be patient with the Modern Side,’ said King.  ’But it is almost insupportable for this Side.  Vernon, what are you grinning at?’

Vernon’s mind had returned to him glowing and inspired.  He chuckled as he underlined his Horace.

‘It appears to amuse you,’ said King.  ‘Let us participate.  What is it?’

‘The last two lines of the Tenth Ode, in this book, sir,’ was Vernon’s amazing reply.