‘No, dear, it was mine,’ said Maude. ‘You remember it all came from my saying that Frank had gone to the ball as the Pied Piper.’ ‘I am going to read the very first poem that I open,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer remorselessly. ‘I am afraid that it is almost time that I started, but we may still be able to skim over a few pages. Now then! There! _Setebos_! What a funny name!’ ‘What _does_ it mean?’ asked Maude. ‘We shall find out, no doubt, as we proceed,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘We shall take it line by line and draw the full meaning from it. The first line is— ‘Will sprawl now that the heat of day is best—’ ‘Who will?’ asked Mrs. Beecher. ‘I don’t know. That’s what it says.’ ‘The next line will explain, no doubt.’ ‘Flat on his—’ ‘Dear me, I had no idea that Browning was like this!’ ‘Do read it, dear.’ ‘I couldn’t possibly think of doing so. With your permission we will pass on to the next paragraph.’ ‘But we vowed not to skip.’ ‘But why read what cannot instruct or elevate us. Let us begin this next stanza, and hope for something better. The first line is—I wonder if it really can be as it is written.’ ‘Do please read it!’ ‘Setebos and Setebos and Setebos.’ The three students looked sadly at each other. ‘This is worse than anything I could have imagined,’ said the reader. ‘We mast skip that line.’ ‘But we are skipping everything.’ ‘It’s a person’s name,’ said Mrs. Beecher. ‘Or three persons.’ ‘No, only one, I think.’ ‘But why should he repeat it three times?’ ‘For emphasis!’ ‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Beecher, ‘it was Mr. Setebos, and Mrs. Setebos, and a little Setebos.’ ‘Now, if you are going to make fun, I won’t read. But I think we were wrong to say that we would take it line by line. It would be easier sentence by sentence.’ ‘Quite so.’ ‘Then we will include the next line, which finishes the sentence. It is, “thinketh he dwelleth in the cold of the moon.”’ ‘Then it _was_ only one Setebos!’ cried Maude. ‘So it appears. It is easy to understand if one will only put it into ordinary language. This person Setebos was under the impression that his life was spent in the moonlight.’ ‘But what nonsense it is!’ cried Mrs. Beecher. Mrs. Hunt Mortimer looked at her reproachfully. ‘It is very easy to call everything which we do not understand “nonsense,”’ said she. ‘I have no doubt that Browning had a profound meaning in this.’ ‘What was it, then?’ Mrs. Hunt Mortimer looked at the clock. ‘I am very sorry to have to go,’ said she, ‘but really I have no choice in the matter. Just as we were getting on so nicely—it is really most vexatious. You’ll come to my house next Wednesday, Mrs. Crosse, won’t you? And you also, Mrs. Beecher. Good-bye, and thanks for _such_ a pleasant afternoon!’ But her skirts had hardly ceased to rustle in the passage before the Browning Society had been dissolved by a two-thirds’ vote of the total membership.