_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). Here, actually in the same carriage! Does he guess who _I_ am? Somehow---- Well, he certainly _is_ different from what I expected. I thought he would show more signs of having thought and suffered; for he _must_ have suffered to write as he does. If mamma knew I had read his poems; that I had actually written to beg him not to refuse Aunt Albinia's invitation! He never wrote back. Of course I didn't put any address; but still, he could have found out from the Red Book if he'd cared. I'm rather glad now he _didn't_ care. _Spurrell_ (_to himself_). Old girl seems as if she meant to be sociable; better give her an opening. (_Aloud._) Hem! would you like the window down an inch or two? _Lady Cantire._ Not on _my_ account, thank you. _Spurrell_ (_to himself_). Broke the ice, anyway. (_Aloud._) Oh, _I_ don't want it down, but some people have such a mania for fresh air. _Lady Cantire_ (_with a dignified little shiver_). Have they? With a temperature as glacial as it is in here! They must be maniacs indeed! _Spurrell._ Well, it _is_ chilly; been raw all day. (_To himself._) She don't answer. I _haven't_ broken the ice. [_He produces a memorandum book._ _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). He hasn't said anything _very_ original yet. So _nice_ of him not to pose! Oh, he's got a note-book; he's going to compose a poem. How interesting! [Illustration: "HE'S GOING TO COMPOSE A POEM. HOW INTERESTING!"] _Spurrell_ (_to himself_). Yes, I'm all right if Heliograph wins the Lincolnshire Handicap; lucky to get on at the price I did. Wonder what's the latest about the City and Suburban? Let's see whether the Pink Un has anything about it. [_He refers to the Sporting Times._ _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). The inspiration's stopped--_what_ a pity! How odd of him to read the _Globe_! I thought he was a Democrat! _Lady Cantire._ Maisie, there's quite a clever little notice in _Society Snippets_ about the dance at Skympings last week. I'm sure I wonder how they pick up these things; it quite bears out what I was told; says the supper arrangements were "simply disgraceful; not nearly enough champagne; and what there was, undrinkable!" So _like_ poor dear Lady Chesepare; never _does_ do things like anybody else. I'm sure _I've_ given her hints enough! _Spurrell_ (_to himself, with a suppressed grin_). Wants to let me see _she_ knows some swells. Now _ain't_ that paltry? _Lady Cantire_ (_tendering the paper_). Would you like to see it, Maisie? Just this bit here; where my finger is. _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself, flushing_). I saw him smile. What _must_ he think of us, with his splendid scorn for rank? (_Aloud._) No, thank you, mamma: such a wretched light to read by! _Spurrell_ (_to himself_). Chance for _me_ to cut in! (_Aloud._) Beastly light, isn't it? 'Pon my word, the company ought to provide us with a dog and string apiece when we get out!