“I wish you would sing to us again, Miss Harleth,” said young Clintock, the archdeacon’s classical son, who had been so fortunate as to take her to dinner, and came up to renew conversation as soon as Herr Klesmer’s performance was ended, “That is the style of music for me. I never can make anything of this tip-top playing. It is like a jar of leeches, where you can never tell either beginnings or endings. I could listen to your singing all day.” “Yes, we should be glad of something popular now—another song from you would be a relaxation,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, who had also come near with polite intentions. “That must be because you are in a puerile state of culture, and have no breadth of horizon. I have just learned that. I have been taught how bad my taste is, and am feeling growing pains. They are never pleasant,” said Gwendolen, not taking any notice of Mrs. Arrowpoint, and looking up with a bright smile at young Clintock. Mrs. Arrowpoint was not insensible to this rudeness, but merely said, “Well, we will not press anything disagreeably,” and as there was a perceptible outburst of imprisoned conversation just then, and a movement of guests seeking each other, she remained seated where she was, and looked around her with the relief of a hostess at finding she is not needed. “I am glad you like this neighborhood,” said young Clintock, well-pleased with his station in front of Gwendolen. “Exceedingly. There seems to be a little of everything and not much of anything.” “That is rather equivocal praise.” “Not with me. I like a little of everything; a little absurdity, for example, is very amusing. I am thankful for a few queer people; but much of them is a bore.” (Mrs. Arrowpoint, who was hearing this dialogue, perceived quite a new tone in Gwendolen’s speech, and felt a revival of doubt as to her interest in Tasso’s madness.) “I think there should be more croquet, for one thing,” said young Clintock; “I am usually away, but if I were more here I should go in for a croquet club. You are one of the archers, I think. But depend upon it croquet is the game of the future. It wants writing up, though. One of our best men has written a poem on it, in four cantos;—as good as Pope. I want him to publish it—You never read anything better.” “I shall study croquet to-morrow. I shall take to it instead of singing.” “No, no, not that; but do take to croquet. I will send you Jenning’s poem if you like. I have a manuscript copy.” “Is he a great friend of yours?” “Well, rather.” “Oh, if he is only rather, I think I will decline. Or, if you send it to me, will you promise not to catechise me upon it and ask me which part I like best? Because it is not so easy to know a poem without reading it as to know a sermon without listening.” “Decidedly,” Mrs. Arrowpoint thought, “this girl is double and satirical. I shall be on my guard against her.”