I did not pretend to know this particular play, but my tone implied that I had always been meaning to read it and had always by some mischance been prevented. For his sake as well as my own I did want to acquit myself passably. I wanted for him the pleasure of seeing his joys shared by a representative, however humble, of the common world. I turned the leaves caressingly, looking from them to him, while he dilated on the beauty of this and that scene in the play. Anon he fetched another volume, and another, always with the same faith that this was a favourite of mine. I quibbled, I evaded, I was very enthusiastic and uncomfortable. It was with intense relief that I beheld the title-page of yet another volume which (silently, this time) he laid before me--The Country Wench. ‘This of course I have read,’ I heartily shouted. Swinburne stepped back. ‘You have? You have read it? Where?’ he cried, in evident dismay. Something was wrong. Had I not, I quickly wondered, read this play? ‘Oh yes,’ I shouted, ‘I have read it.’ ‘But when? Where?’ entreated Swinburne, adding that he had supposed it to be the sole copy extant. I floundered. I wildly said I thought I must have read it years ago in the Bodleian. ‘Theodore! Do you hear this? It seems that they have now a copy of “The Country Wench” in the Bodleian! Mr. Beerbohm found one there--oh when? in what year?’ he appealed to me. I said it might have been six, seven, eight years ago. Swinburne knew for certain that no copy had been there twelve years ago, and was surprised that he had not heard of the acquisition. ‘They might have told me,’ he wailed. I sacrificed myself on the altar of sympathy. I admitted that I might have been mistaken--must have been--must have confused this play with some other. I dipped into the pages and ‘No,’ I shouted, ‘this I have never read.’ His equanimity was restored. He was up the ladder and down again, showing me further treasures with all pride and ardour. At length, Watts-Dunton, afraid that his old friend would tire himself, arose from his corner, and presently he and I went downstairs to the dining-room. It was in the course of our session together that there suddenly flashed across my mind the existence of a play called ‘The Country Wife,’ by--wasn’t it Wycherley? I had once read it--or read something about it.... But this matter I kept to myself. I thought I had appeared fool enough already.