In the Chinese Drawing-room. Time—About 9.45 P.M.

Mrs. Earwaker. Yes, dear Lady Lullington, I've always insisted on each of my girls adopting a distinct line of her own, and the result has been most satisfactory. Louisa, my eldest, is literary; she had a little story accepted not long ago by The Milky Way; then Maria is musical—practices regularly three hours every day on her violin. Fanny has become quite an expert in photography—kodaked her father the other day in the act of trying a difficult stroke at billiards; a back view—but so clever and characteristic!

Lady Lullington (absently). A back view? How nice!

Mrs. Earwaker. He was the only one of the family who didn't recognize it at once. Then my youngest Caroline—well, I must say that for a long time I was quite in despair about Caroline. It really looked as if there was no single thing that she had the slightest bent or inclination for. So at last I thought she had better take up religion, and make that her speciality.

Lady Lullington (languidly). Religion! How very nice!

Mrs. Earwaker. Well, I got her a Christian Year and a covered basket, and quantities of tracts, and so on; but, somehow, she didn't seem to get on with it. So I let her give it up; and now she's gone in for poker-etching instead.

Lady Lullington (by an act of unconscious cerebration). Poker-etching! How very, very nice!

[Her eyelids close gently.

Lady Rhoda. Oh, but indeed, Lady Culverin, I thought he was perfectly charmin': not a bit booky, you know, but as clever as he can stick; knows more about terriers than any man I ever met!

Lady Culverin. So glad you found him agreeable, my dear. I was half afraid he might strike you as—well, just a little bit common in his way of talking.

Lady Rhoda. P'raps—but, after all, one can't expect those sort of people to talk quite like we do ourselves, can one?

Lady Cantire. Is that Mr. Spurrell you are finding fault with, Albinia? It is curious that you should be the one person here who—— I consider him a very worthy and talented young man, and I shall most certainly ask him to dinner—or lunch, at all events—as soon as we return. I dare say Lady Rhoda will not object to come and meet him.

Lady Rhoda. Rather not. I'll come, like a shot!

Lady Culverin (to herself). I suppose it's very silly of me to be so prejudiced. Nobody else seems to mind him!

Miss Spelwane (crossing over to them). Oh, Lady Culverin, Lady Lullington has such a delightful idea—she's just been saying how very, very nice it would be if Mr. Spurrell could be persuaded to read some of his poetry aloud to us presently. Do you think it could be managed?

Lady Culverin (in distress). Really, my dear Vivien, I—I don't know what to say. I fancy people would so much rather talk—don't you think so, Rohesia?

Lady Cantire. Probably they would, Albinia. It is most unlikely that they would care to hear anything more intellectual and instructive than the sound of their own voices.

Miss Spelwane. I told Lady Lullington that I was afraid you would think it a bore, Lady Cantire.

Lady Cantire. You are perfectly mistaken, Miss Spelwane. I flatter myself I am quite as capable of appreciating a literary privilege as anybody here. But I cannot answer for its being so acceptable to the majority.

Lady Culverin. No, it wouldn't do at all. And it would be making this young man so much too conspicuous.

Lady Cantire. You are talking nonsense, my dear. When you are fortunate enough to secure a celebrity at Wyvern, you can't make him too conspicuous. I never knew that Laura Lullington had any taste for literature before, but there's something to be said for her suggestion—if it can be carried out; it would at least provide a welcome relief from the usual after-dinner dullness of this sort of gathering.

Miss Spelwane. Then—would you ask him, Lady Cantire?

Lady Cantire. I, my dear? You forget that I am not hostess here. My sister-in-law is the proper person to do that.

Lady Culverin. Indeed I couldn't. But perhaps, Vivien, if you liked to suggest it to him, he might——

Miss Spelwane. I'll try, dear Lady Culverin. And if my poor little persuasions have no effect, I shall fall back on Lady Cantire, and then he can't refuse. I must go and tell dear Lady Lullington—she'll be so pleased! (To herself, as she skims away.) I generally do get my own way. But I mean him to do it to please Me!

Lady Cantire (to herself). I must say that girl is very much improved in manner since I last saw anything of her.

Mrs. Chatteris (a little later, to Lady Maisie). Have you heard what a treat is in store for us? That delightful Mr. Spurrell is going to give us a reading or a recitation, or something, from his own poems; at least Miss Spelwane is to ask him as soon as the men come in. Only I should have thought that he would be much more likely to consent if you asked him.

Lady Maisie. Would you? I'm sure I don't know why.

Mrs. Chatteris (archly). Oh, he took me in to dinner, you know, and it's quite wonderful how people confide in me, but I suppose they feel I can be trusted. He mentioned a little fact, which gave me the impression that a certain fair lady's wishes would be supreme with him.

Lady Maisie (to herself). The wretch! He has been boasting of my unfortunate letter! (Aloud.) Mr. Spurrell had no business to give you any impression of the kind. And the mere fact that I—that I happened to admire his verses——

Mrs. Chatteris. Exactly! Poets' heads are so easily turned; and, as I said to Captain Thicknesse——

Lady Maisie. Captain Thicknesse! You have been talking about it—to him!

Mrs. Chatteris. I'd no idea you would mind anybody knowing, or I would never have dreamed of—— I've such a perfect horror of gossip! It took me so much by surprise, that I simply couldn't resist. But I can easily tell Captain Thicknesse it was all a mistake; he knows how fearfully inaccurate I always am.

Lady Maisie. I would rather you said nothing more about it, please; it is really not worth while contradicting anything so utterly absurd. (To herself.) That Gerald—Captain Thicknesse—of all people, should know of my letter! And goodness only knows what story she may have made out of it!

Mrs. Chatteris (to herself, as she moves away). I've been letting my tongue run away with me, as usual. She's not the original of "Lady Grisoline," after all. Perhaps he meant Vivien Spelwane—the description was much more like her!

Pilliner (who has just entered with some of the younger men, to Miss Spelwane). What are you doing with these chairs? Why are we all to sit in a circle, like Moore and Burgess people? You're not going to set the poor dear Bishop down to play baby-games? How perfectly barbarous of you!

Miss Spelwane. The chairs are being arranged for something much more intellectual. We are going to get Mr. Spurrell to read a poem to us, if you want to know. I told you I should manage it.

Pilliner. There's only one drawback to that highly desirable arrangement. The songster has unostentatiously retired to roost. So I'm afraid you'll have to do without your poetry this evening—that is, unless you care to avail yourself again of my services?

Miss Spelwane (indignantly). It is too mean of you. You must have told him!

[He protests his innocence.

Lady Rhoda. Archie, what's become of Mr. Spurrell? I particularly want to ask him something.

Bearpark. The poet? He nipped upstairs—as I told you all along he meant to—to scribble some of his democratic drivel, and (with a suppressed grin) I don't think you'll see him again this evening.

Captain Thicknesse (to himself, as he enters). She's keepin' a chair next hers in the corner there for somebody. Can it be for that poet chap?... (He meets Lady Maisie's eye suddenly.) Great Scott! If she means it for me!... I've half a mind not to—— No, I shall be a fool if I lose such a chance! (He crosses, and drops into the vacant chair next hers.) I may sit here, mayn't I?

Lady Maisie (simply). I meant you to. We used to be such good friends; it's a pity to have misunderstandings. And—and I want to ask you what that silly little Mrs. Chatteris has been telling you at dinner about me.

Captain Thicknesse. Well, she was sayin'—and I must say I don't understand it, after your tellin' me you knew nothing about this Mr. Spurrell till this afternoon——

Lady Maisie. But I don't. And I—I did offer to explain, but you said you weren't curious!

Captain Thicknesse. Didn't want you to tell me anything that perhaps you'd rather not, don't you know. Still, I should like to know how this poet chap came to write a poem all about you, and call it "Lady Grisoline," if he never——

Lady Maisie. But it's too ridiculous! How could he? When he never saw me, so far as I know, in all his life before!

Captain Thicknesse. He told Mrs. Chatteris you were the original of his "Lady Grisoline" anyway, and really——

Lady Maisie. He dared to tell her that? How disgracefully impertinent of him. (To herself.) So long as he hasn't talked about my letter, he may say what he pleases!

Captain Thicknesse. But what was it you were goin' to explain to me? You said there was somethin'——

Lady Maisie (to herself). It's no use; I'd sooner die than tell him about that letter now! (Aloud.) I—I only wished you to understand that, whatever I think about poetry—I detest poets!

Lady Cantire. Yes, as you say, Bishop, a truly Augustan mode of recreation. Still, Mr. Spurrell doesn't seem to have come in yet, so I shall have time to hear anything you have to say in defence of your opposition to Parish Councils.

[The Bishop resigns himself to the inevitable.

Archie (in Pilliner's ear). Ink and flour—couldn't possibly miss him; the bard's got a matted head this time, and no mistake.

Pilliner. Beastly bad form, I call it—with a fellow you don't know. You'll get yourself into trouble some day. And you couldn't even bring your own ridiculous booby-trap off, for here the beggar comes, as if nothing had happened.

Archie (disconcerted). Confound him! The best booby trap I ever made!

The Bishop. My dear Lady Cantire, here is our youthful poet, at the eleventh hour. (To himself.) "Sic me servavit Apollo!"

[Miss Spelwane advances to meet Spurrell, who stands surveying the array of chairs in blank bewilderment.