(It was the Colonies that had done it, he thought, and the studio talk of that dilettante architect.

By and bye, David would distinguish himself at the Bar, marry and settle down, and resume the orthodox outlook of the English--or as he liked to call it--the British Church.) "The Dinosaurs, my boy?
No.

What were they ?" _David_: "The real Dragons, the Dragons of the prime, that swarmed over England and Wales and Scotland, and Europe, Asia, and North America--and I dare say Africa too.

One of the most stupendous facts of what you call 'creation,' though perhaps only one amongst many skin diseases that have afflicted the planet--Well the Dinosaurs went on developing and evolving and perfecting--so Rossiter says--for three million years or so--Then they were scrap-heaped.
What a waste of creative energy!..." _Father_: "Ah it's Rossiter who puts all these ideas into your head, is it ?" _David_ (flushing); "Oh dear no! I used to think about them at (is about to say 'Newnham,' but substitutes 'Malvern')--at Malvern--" _Father_ (drily): "I'm glad to hear you thought about something--serious--at any rate--then, in the midst of your scrapes and truancies--but go on, dear boy.

It's a delight to me to hear you speak.