The first time this happened, being new to their unconventional ways, I explained to two girls, who approached me simultaneously, that I didn’t know them. Whereupon, with the swift repartee for which this class is famous, they told me that they were the Duchess of Edinburgh and the Empress of Russia, and that they were stopping with Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace, and had just popped out for a breather before supper. Of course, the right thing to do is to take these dashing meteors in their own spirit; and when they invited me to return with them to the palace, I explained that some other night I should be delighted to do so, but that I was bound for Marlborough House myself on this occasion, and already half an hour late. They appreciated the _bon mot_ and rather took to me. Though doubtless they might have been called bad girls, nobody would have called them bad company. They had an air of abandon and heartiness which put you entirely at your ease with them. In fact, when they asked me to stand them a drink, I very nearly did so; but not quite. Instead, I left them abruptly and vanished into the night, followed by epithets humorous in their way, but not intended for publication. To return to Brightwin: in due course he took me to see Mr. Bulger, editor of _Thespis_, and I found myself confronted with a type of the poet mind. Mr. Bulger was evidently a dreamer. His great ambition centred upon a State theatre for England, similar to that in foreign countries. He had very exalted opinions and an intense hatred of bad Art. He wanted to gather round him a band of young enthusiasts who would work for love; because, as he explained to me, the pioneer is seldom rewarded, excepting with the laurels of fame. “Even these,” said Mr. Bulger bitterly, “seldom encircle his own brow. You will generally find them on the bronze or marble forehead of his statue, long after he has vanished into the dust.” In this high strain he talked, and I saw in a moment that I stood before genius. His soul looked out of his eyes and made them water. His physical frame was of no consequence, and one forgot it when he talked. I trembled to think that this aspiring man was going to read my poem; but he did so, and Brightwin and I sat silent and watched him. Once or twice he nodded in a slightly approving way; and once or twice he shook his head, and I felt the blush of shame upon my cheek. When he had finished, he said: “Quite excellent, Mr. Corkey; we must publish this in the paper. There are, however, some failures of technique and a few flashes of unconscious humour that will be better away. May I take it that you will not mind if I edit the poem for publication?” Little knowing what this exactly meant, I replied that it would be a great privilege to me if he would do so. “Good,” he said, and put my poem under a paper-weight upon his desk.