_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._

"The lark soars up in the air; The toad sits tight in his hole; And I would I were certain which of the pair Were the truer type of my soul!"

_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."

"Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe, Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green, Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe, Then--kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"

_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 cla.s.sical specimen.

[_He reads._

"Uprears the monster now his s...o...b..rous head, Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing; Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread, Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing."

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

[_He reads._

"Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for _you_, dear Archie!) Blink your bleared eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!) Behold the Sun-- Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence, Demos dawning, and the Darkness--done!"

[_General hilarity, amidst which_ Lady CULVERIN _enters_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 pa.s.ses on._

_Bertie_ (_plaintively, after_ Lady CULVERIN _has left the room_). May I trouble somebody to sc.r.a.pe 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 b.o.o.by-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. Do you know her, Captain Thicknesse?

_Captain Thicknesse._ I--I used to meet Lady Maisie Mull pretty often at one time; don't know if she'll remember it, though.

_Lady Rhoda._ She'll love meetin' this writin' man--she's so fearfully romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealized by a great poet--sort of--what's their names--Petrarch and Beatrice business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see whether it comes off--won't it?

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_choking_). I--ah--no affair of mine, really.

(_To himself._) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that.

Suppose I shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well, there's always Aldershot!

[_The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and satisfaction._

PART III

THE TWO ANDROMEDAS

_Opposite a Railway Bookstall at a London Terminus._ TIME--_Sat.u.r.day_, 4.25 P.M.

_Drysdale_ (_to his friend_, GALFRID UNDERSh.e.l.l, _whom he is "seeing off"_). Twenty minutes to spare; time enough to lay in any quant.i.ty of light literature.

_Undersh.e.l.l_ (_in a head voice_). I fear the merely ephemeral does not appeal to me. But I should like to make a little experiment. (_To the_ Bookstall Clerk.) A--do you happen to have a copy left of Clarion Blair's _Andromeda_?

_Clerk._ Not in stock, sir. Never 'eard of the book, but dare say I could get it for you. Here's a Detective Story we're sellin' like 'ot cakes--_The Man with the Missing Toe_--very cleverly written story, sir.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HERE'S A DETECTIVE STORY WE'RE SELLING LIKE 'OT CAKES."]

_Undersh.e.l.l._ I merely wished to know--that was all. (_Turning with resigned disgust to_ DRYSDALE.) Just think of it, my dear fellow. At a bookstall like this one feels the pulse, as it were, of Contemporary Culture; and here my _Andromeda_, which no less an authority than the _Daily Chronicle_ hailed as the uprising of a new and splendid era in English Song-making, a Poetic Renascence, my poor _Andromeda_, is trampled underfoot by--(_choking_)--Men with Missing Toes! What a satire on our so-called Progress!

_Drysdale._ That a purblind public should prefer a Shilling Shocker for railway reading when for a modest half-guinea they might obtain a numbered volume of Coming Poetry on hand-made paper! It _does_ seem incredible,--but they do. Well, if they can't read _Andromeda_ on the journey, they can at least peruse a stinger on it in this week's _Sat.u.r.day_. Seen it?

_Undersh.e.l.l._ No. I don't vex my soul by reading criticisms on my work. I am no Keats. They may howl--but they will not kill _me_. By the way, the _Speaker_ had a most enthusiastic notice last week.

_Drysdale._ So you saw _that_ then? But you're right not to mind the others. When a fellow's contrived to hang on to the Chariot of Fame, he can't wonder if a few rude and envious beggars call out "Whip behind!" eh? You don't want to get in yet? Suppose we take a turn up to the end of the platform.