"I mean that," said Penelope, enthusiastically. "It is a new departure, an assertion of a just individualism, although I am a socialist. I abhor ceremonies, and will not be interfered with. I have stated with the utmost clarity to all my relations that I shall not consult them or let them know until I choose, and I shall only get married (if I ever do) on these terms." "I agree to them," said the poet. "Lady Penelope, will you do me the inexpressible honour to be my wife?" "Oh, dear, no," said Pen. "Why, certainly not, Mr. de Vere. I don’t love any one yet, and perhaps I never shall. But what I say is this: I’ll think as to whether I shall marry you if you do as I wish about this matter and about others." "My blessed lady," said the poet, "is there anything I would not dare or do?" "I’ve told Captain Goby exactly the same thing," said Penelope, thereby putting her pretty foot upon the sudden flowers of De Vere’s imagination, "and what I want of you is to be more an out-of-door man. You live too much in rooms, hothouses, Mr. de Vere, and in your own garden." "I was in a garden, I a poet, with one who was (oh, and is) an angel," said De Vere, "but now I dwell in arid deserts, shall I say the Desert of Gobi? What have I to do with him? Shall he dare to pretend to you, dear lady?" "He’s a very good chap," said Pen, quite shortly, "and I think it would do you good to associate with him more. I’ve told him so, and he agrees. I want you to make him read a little, and exercise his imagination. And he can take you out rowing and shooting perhaps, and I think a little hunting wouldn’t do you harm. You might ask him to stay with you, and he’ll ask you. And I want you to go out in motor-cars." "Good heavens!" said De Vere. "I know it will be hard," said Pen, consolingly. "But you know what I want. It’s not enough to be rich and write poetry, Mr. de Vere. I think you might read statistics; statistics are a tonic, and I want you to be a useful citizen, too. There are things to be done. Just look at my cousin Bob. Now he’ll be a splendid man." "He wanted to sell me a bull-pup," murmured the poet. "He’s a good boy," said Pen, affectionately, "and his instincts are to be trusted. I think a bulldog would do you good perhaps. And I shall expect to hear you have asked Captain Goby to stay with you. And don’t forget the statistics." "I’ll do it," said the unhappy poet, "for while the One Hope I have exists, and until ’vain desire at last and vain regret go hand in hand to death,’ I am your slave." And, as he went away, he called Bob to him. "I’ll give you half a sovereign for that bulldog," he said, bitterly. "Oh, I say. But Baker says he’s worth two sovereigns," cried Bob. "I’ll give you two," said the poet. And Bob danced on the lawn. *CHAPTER IV.*