I can remember her. Can't stand Rohesia—never could!

Lady Culv. I don't think you ought to say so, really, Rupert. And I'm sure I get on very well with her—generally.

Sir Rup. Because you knock under to her.

Lady Culv. I'm sure I don't, Rupert—at least, no more than everybody else. Dear Rohesia is so strong-minded and advanced and all that, she takes such an interest in all the new movements and things, that she can't understand contradiction; she is so democratic in her ideas, don't you know.

Sir Rup. Didn't prevent her marrying Cantire. And a democratic Countess—it's downright unnatural!

Lady Culv. She believes it's her duty to set an example and meet the People half way. That reminds me—did I tell you Mr. Clarion Blair is coming down this evening, too?—only till Monday, Rupert.

Sir Rup. Clarion Blair! never heard of him.

Lady Culv. I suppose I forgot. Clarion Blair isn't his real name though; it's only a—an alias.

Sir Rup. Don't see what any fellow wants with an alias. What is his real name?

Lady Culv. Well, I know it was something ending in "ell," but I mislaid his letter. Still, Clarion Blair is the name he writes under; he's a poet, Rupert, and quite celebrated, so I'm told.

Sir Rup. (uneasily). A poet! What on earth possessed you to ask a literary fellow down here? Poetry isn't much in our way; and a poet will be, confoundedly!

"What on earth possessed you to ask a literary fellow down here?"

Lady Culv. I really couldn't help it, Rupert. Rohesia insisted on my having him to meet her. She likes meeting clever and interesting people. And this Mr. Blair, it seems, has just written a volume of verses which are finer than anything that's been done since—well, for ages!

Sir Rup. What sort of verses?

Lady Culv. Well, they're charmingly bound. I've got the book in the house, somewhere. Rohesia told me to send for it; but I haven't had time to read it yet.

Sir Rup. Shouldn't be surprised if Rohesia hadn't, either.

Lady Culv. At all events, she's heard it talked about. The young man's verses have made quite a sensation; they're so dreadfully clever, and revolutionary, and morbid and pessimistic, and all that, so she made me promise to ask him down here to meet her!

Sir Rup. Devilish thoughtful of her.

Lady Culv. Wasn't it? She thought it might be a valuable experience for him; he's sprung, I believe, from quite the middle class.

Sir Rup. Don't see myself why should he be sprung on us. Why can't Rohesia ask him to her own place?

Lady Culv. I daresay she will, if he turns out to be quite presentable. And, of course, he may, Rupert, for anything we can tell.

Sir Rup. Then you've never seen him yourself! How did you manage to ask him here, then?

Lady Culv. Oh, I wrote to him through his publishers. Rohesia says that's the usual way with literary persons one doesn't happen to have met. And he wrote to say he would come.

Sir Rup. So we're to have a morbid revolutionary poet staying in the house, are we? He'll come down to dinner in a flannel shirt and no tie—or else a red one—if he don't bring down a beastly bomb and try to blow us all up! You'll find you've made a mistake, Albinia, depend upon it.

Lady Culv. Dear Rupert, aren't you just a little bit narrow? You forget that nowadays the very best houses are proud to entertain Genius—no matter what their opinions and appearance may be. And besides, we don't know what changes may be coming. Surely it is wise and prudent to conciliate the clever young men who might inflame the masses against us. Rohesia thinks so; she says it may be our only chance of stemming the rising tide of Revolution, Rupert!

Sir Rup. Oh, if Rohesia thinks a revolution can be stemmed by asking a few poets down from Saturday to Monday, she might do her share of the stemming at all events.

Lady Culv. But you will be nice to him, Rupert, won't you?

Sir Rup. I don't know that I'm in the habit of being uncivil to any guest of yours in this house, my dear, but I'll be hanged if I grovel to him, you know; the tide ain't as high as all that. But it's an infernal nuisance, 'pon my word it is; you must look after him yourself, I can't. I don't know what to talk to geniuses about; I've forgotten all the poetry I ever learnt. And if he comes out with any of his Red Republican theories in my hearing, why——

Lady Culv. Oh, but he won't, dear. I'm certain he'll be quite mild and inoffensive. Look at Shakspeare—the bust, I mean—and he began as a poacher!

Sir Rup. Ah, and this chap would put down the Game Laws if he could, I daresay; do away with everything that makes the country worth living in. Why, if he had his way, Albinia, there wouldn't be——

Lady Culv. I know, dear, I know. And you must make him see all that from your point. Look, the weather really seems to be clearing a little. We might all of us get out for a drive or something after lunch. I would ride, if Deerfoot's all right again; he's the only horse I ever feel really safe upon, now.

Sir Rup. Sorry, my dear, but you'll have to drive then. Adams tells me the horse is as lame as ever this morning, and he don't know what to make of it. He suggested having Horsfall over, but I've no faith in the local vets myself, so I wired to town for old Spavin. He's seen Deerfoot before, and we could put him up for a night or two. (To Tredwell, the butler, who enters with a telegram.) Eh, for me? just wait, will you, in case there's an answer. (As he opens it.) Ah, this is from Spavin—h'm, nuisance! "Regret unable to leave at present, bronchitis, junior partner could attend immediately if required.—Spavin." Never knew he had a partner.

Tredw. I did hear, Sir Rupert, as Mr. Spavin was looking out for one quite recent, being hasthmatical, m'lady, and so I suppose this is him as the telegram alludes to.

Sir Rup. Very likely. Well, he's sure to be a competent man. We'd better have him, eh, Albinia?

Lady Culv. Oh, yes, and he must stay till Deerfoot's better. I'll speak to Pomfret about having a room ready in the East Wing for him. Tell him to come by the 4.45, Rupert. We shall be sending the omnibus in to meet that.

Sir Rup. All right, I've told him. (Giving the form