At least it was—­fortunately—­not quite that; but it was certainly genuine and most disturbing, and it grew with the days.  Somebody with a taste for juggling with figures might write a very readable page or so of statistics in connection with the growth of love.  In some cases it is, I believe, slow.  In my own I can only say that Jack’s beanstalk was a backward plant in comparison.  It is true that we had not seen a great deal of one another, and that, when we had met, our interview had been brief and our conversation conventional; but it is the intervals between the meeting that do the real damage.  Absence—­I do not claim the thought as my own—­makes the heart grow fonder.  And now, thanks to Ukridge’s amazing idiocy, a barrier had been thrust between us.  Lord knows, the business of fishing for a girl’s heart is sufficiently difficult and delicate without the addition of needless obstacles.  To cut out the naval miscreant under equal conditions would have been a task ample enough for my modest needs.  It was terrible to have to re-establish myself in the good graces of the professor before I could so much as begin to dream of Phyllis.  Ukridge gave me no balm.

“Well, after all,” he said, when I pointed out to him quietly but plainly my opinion of his tactlessness, “what does it matter?  Old Derrick isn’t the only person in the world.  If he doesn’t want to know us, laddie, we just jolly well pull ourselves together and stagger along without him.  It’s quite possible to be happy without knowing old Derrick.  Millions of people are going about the world at this moment, singing like larks out of pure light-heartedness, who don’t even know of his existence.  And, as a matter of fact, old horse, we haven’t time to waste making friends and being the social pets.  Too much to do on the farm.  Strict business is the watchword, my boy.  We must be the keen, tense men of affairs, or, before we know where we are, we shall find ourselves right in the gumbo.

“I’ve noticed, Garny, old horse, that you haven’t been the whale for work lately that you might be.  You must buckle to, laddie.  There must be no slackness.  We are at a critical stage.  On our work now depends the success of the speculation.  Look at those damned cocks.  They’re always fighting.  Heave a stone at them, laddie, while you’re up.  What’s the matter with you?  You seem pipped.  Can’t get the novel off your chest, or what?  You take my tip and give your brain a rest.  Nothing like manual labour for clearing the brain.  All the doctors say so.  Those coops ought to be painted to-day or to-morrow.  Mind you, I think old Derrick would be all right if one persevered—­”

“—­and didn’t call him a fat little buffer and contradict everything he said and spoil all his stories by breaking in with chestnuts of your own in the middle,” I interrupted with bitterness.