[_Murmurs of satisfaction._

_Lady Cantire._ Hush, please, everybody! Mr. Spurrell is going to read. My dear Bishop, if you _wouldn't_ mind just---- Lord Lullington, can you hear where you are? Where are you going to sit, Mr. Spurrell?

In the centre will be best. Will somebody move that lamp a little, so as to give him more light?

_Spurrell_ (_to himself, as he sits down_). I wonder what we're supposed to be playing at! (_Aloud._) Well, what am I to read, eh?

_Miss Spelwane_ (_placing an open copy of_ "Andromeda" _in his hands with a charming air of deferential dictation_). You might begin with _this_--such a _dear_ little piece! I'm dying to hear _you_ read it!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "YOU MIGHT BEGIN WITH THIS--SUCH A DEAR LITTLE PIECE."]

_Spurrell_ (_as he takes the book_). I'll do the best I can! (_He looks at the page in dismay._) Why, look here, it's _poetry_! I didn't bargain for that. Poetry's altogether out of my line!

[Miss SPELWANE _opens her eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he begins to read in a perfunctory monotone, with deepening bewilderment and disgust_--

"THE SICK KNIGHT.

Reach me the helmet from yonder rack, _Mistress o' mine! with its plume of white_: Now help me upon my destrier's back, _Mistress o' mine! though he swerve in fright_.

And guide my foot to the stirrup-ledge, _Mistress o' mine! it eludes me still_.

Then fill me a cup as a farewell pledge, _Mistress o' mine! for the night air's chill_!

Haste! with the buckler and pennon'd lance, _Mistress o' mine! or ever I feel_ My war-horse plunge in impatient prance, _Mistress o' mine! at the p.r.i.c.k of heel_.

Pay scant heed to my pallid hue, _Mistress o' mine! for the wan moon's sheen_ Doth blazon the gules o' my cheek with blue, _Mistress o' mine! or glamour it green_.

One last long kiss, ere I seek the fray ...

_Mistress o' mine! though I quit my sell_, I would meet the foe i' the mad melee.

_Mistress o' mine! an' I were but well!_"

(_After the murmur of conventional appreciation has died away._) Well, of course, I don't set up for a judge of such things myself, but I must say, if I was asked _my_ opinion--of all the downright tommy-rot I _ever_---- (_The company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the t.i.tle-page._) I _say_, though, I do call this _rather_ rum! Who the d.i.c.kens is Clarion Blair? Because _I_ never heard of him--and yet it seems he's been writing poetry on my bull-dog!

_Miss Spelwane_ (_faintly_). Writing poetry--about your bull-dog!

_Spurrell._ Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be--_Andromeda_!

[_Tableau._

PART XVIII

THE LAST STRAW

_After_ SPURRELL'S _ingenuous comments upon the volume in his hand, a painful silence ensues, which no one has sufficient presence of mind to break for several seconds_.

_Miss Spelwane_ (_to herself_). Not Clarion Blair! Not even a poet!

I--I could _slap_ him!

_Pilliner_ (_to himself_). Poor dear Vivien! But if people will insist on patting a strange poet, they mustn't be surprised if they get a nasty bite!

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). He didn't write _Andromeda_! Then he hasn't got my letter after all! And I've been such a _brute_ to the poor dear man! _How_ lucky I said nothing about it to Gerald!

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). So he _ain't_ the bard!... Now I see why Maisie's been behavin' so oddly all the evenin'; she spotted him, and didn't like to speak out. Tried to give me a hint, though.

Well, I shall stay out my leave now!

_Lady Rhoda_ (_to herself_). I thought all along he seemed too good a sort for a poet!

_Archie_ (_to himself_). It's all very well; but how about that skit he went up to write on us? He _must_ be a poet of sorts.

_Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris_ (_to herself_). This is fearfully puzzling.

What made him say that about "Lady Grisoline"?

_The Bishop_ (_to himself_). A crushing blow for the Countess; but not unsalutary. I am distinctly conscious of feeling more kindly disposed to that young man. Now why?

[_He ponders._

_Lady Lullington_ (_to herself_). I thought this young man was going to read us some more of his poetry; it's too tiresome of him to stop to tell us about his bull-dog. As if anybody cared _what_ he called it!

_Lord Lullington_ (_to himself_). Uncommonly awkward, this! If I could catch Laura's eye--but I suppose it would hardly be decent to go just yet.

_Lady Culverin_ (_to herself_). Can Rohesia have known this? What possible object could she have had in---- And oh, dear, _how_ disgusted Rupert will be!

_Sir Rupert_ (_to himself_). Seems a decent young chap enough! Too bad of Rohesia to let him in for this. I don't care a straw what he is--he's none the worse for not being a poet.

_Lady Cantire_ (_to herself_). What _is_ he maundering about? It's utterly inconceivable that _I_ should have made any mistake. It's only too clear what the cause is--_Claret_!

_Spurrell_ (_aloud, good-humouredly_). Too bad of you to try and spoof me like this before everybody, Miss Spelwane! I don't know whose idea it was to play me such a trick, but----

_Miss Spelwane_ (_indistinctly_). Please understand that n.o.body here had the _least_ intention of playing a trick upon you!

_Spurrell._ Well, if you say so, of course---- But it looked rather like it, asking me to read when I've about as much poetry in me as--as a pot hat! Still, if I'm _wanted_ to read aloud, I shall be happy to----

_Lady Culverin_ (_hastily_). Indeed, _indeed_, Mr. Spurrell, we couldn't think of troubling you any more under the circ.u.mstances! (_In desperation._) Vivien, my dear, won't you _sing_ something?

[_The company echo the request with unusual eagerness._

_Spurrell_ (_to himself, during_ Miss SPELWANE'S _song_). Wonder what's put them off being read to all of a sudden? My elocution mayn't be first-cla.s.s, exactly, but still---- (_As his eye happens to rest on the binding of the volume on his knee._) Hullo! This cover's pink, with silver things, not unlike cutlets, on it! Didn't Emma ask me----?

By George, if it's _that_! I may get down to the housekeeper's room, after all! As soon as ever this squalling stops I'll find out; I _can't_ go on like this! (Miss SPELWANE _leaves the piano; everybody plunges feverishly into conversation on the first subject--other than poetry or dogs--that presents itself, until_ Lord _and_ Lady LULLINGTON _set a welcome example of departure_.) Better wait till these county n.o.bs have cleared, I suppose--there goes the last of 'em--now for it!... (_He pulls himself together, and approaches his host and hostess._) Hem, Sir Rupert, and your ladyship, it's occurred to me that it's just barely possible you may have got it in your heads that I was something in the _poetical_ way.

_Sir Rupert_ (_to himself_). Not this poor young chap's fault; must let him down as easily as possible! (_Aloud._) Not at all--not at all!

Ha--a.s.sure you we quite understand; no necessity to say another word about it.

_Spurrell_ (_to himself_). Just my luck! They quite understand! No housekeeper's room for me this journey! (_Aloud._) Of course I knew the Countess, there, and Lady Maisie, were fully aware all along---- (_To_ Lady MAISIE, _as stifled exclamations reach his ear_.) You _were_, weren't you?

_Lady Maisie_ (_hastily_). Yes, yes, Mr. Spurrell. Of course! It's all _perfectly_ right!

_Spurrell_ (_to the others_). You see, I should never have thought of coming in as a visitor if it hadn't been for the Countess; she would _have_ it that it was all right, and that I needn't be afraid I shouldn't be welcome.

_Lady Culverin._ To be sure--any friend of my sister-in-law's----