not standing quite so much in my light? I can't see my work.

Captain Thicknesse (to himself, retreating). That girl's always fishin' for compliments. I didn't rise that time, though. It's precious slow here. I've a good mind to say I must get back to Aldershot this afternoon.

[He wanders aimlessly about the room; Archie Bearpark looks out of window with undisguised boredom.

Lady Rhoda. I say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than this, you may as well go back to your billiards again.

Bertie Pilliner. Dear Lady Rhoda, how cruel of you! You'll have to let me stay. I'll be so good. Look here, I'll read aloud to you. I can—quite prettily. What shall it be? You don't care? No more do I. I'll take the first that comes. (He reaches for the nearest volume on a table close by.) How too delightful! Poetry—which I know you all adore.

[He turns over the leaves.

Lady Rhoda. If you ask me, I simply loathe it.

Bertie Pilliner. Ah, but then you never heard me read it, you know. Now, here is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as if it had been misbehaving itself. "Disenchantment" it's called.

[He reads.

Archie Bearpark. Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy!

Bertie Pilliner. He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea of "Abasement."

[He reads.

Now, do you know, I rather like that—it's so deliciously decadent!

Lady Rhoda. I should call it utter rot, myself.

Bertie Pilliner (blandly). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but not "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."

[He reads.

Archie Bearpark. I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.

Miss Spelwane. If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs?

Bertie Pilliner. I'll look. Yes, any amount—here's one. (He reads.) "To My Lady."

Miss Spelwane (interested). So that's his type. Does he mention whether she did kiss him?

Bertie Pilliner. Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he does mention it ... I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen.

[He reads.

And so on, don't you know.... Now I'll read you a regular rouser called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody!

[He reads.

[General hilarity, amidst which Lady Culverin enters.

"NOW I'LL READ YOU A REGULAR ROUSER CALLED 'A TRUMPET BLAST.'"

Lady Culverin. So glad you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear Vivien?

Miss Spelwane. Bertie Pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear Lady Culverin—the most ridiculous poetry—made us all simply shriek. What's the name of it? (Taking the volume out of Bertie's hand.) Oh, Andromeda, and other Poems. By Clarion Blair.

Lady Culverin (coldly). Bertie Pilliner can turn everything into ridicule, we all know; but probably you are not aware that these particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges. Indeed, my sister-in-law——

All (in consternation). Lady Cantire! Is she the author? Oh, of course, if we'd had any idea——

Lady Culverin. I've no reason to believe that Lady Cantire ever composed any poetry. I was only going to say that she was most interested in the author, and as she and my niece Maisie are coming to us this evening——

Miss Spelwane. Dear Lady Culverin, the verses are quite, quite beautiful; it was only the way they were read.

Lady Culverin. I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably be his neighbour to-night. I hope, Bertie, that you will remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that I can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand.

[She passes on.

Bertie (plaintively, after Lady Culverin has left the room). May I trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you know, a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss Spelwane, how will you like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh?

Miss Spelwane. Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining than a smooth one. And, if you've quite done with that volume, I should like to have a look at it.

[She retires with it to her room.

Archie (to himself). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin'; I never caught a Bard in a booby-trap yet.

Captain Thicknesse (to himself). She's coming—this very evenin'! And I was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot!

Lady Rhoda. So Lady Cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our hind legs now! But Maisie's a dear thing.