_Captain Thicknesse._ Didn't want you to tell me anything that perhaps you'd rather not, don't you know. Still, I _should_ like to know how this poet chap came to write a poem all about you, and call it "Lady Grisoline," if he never---- _Lady Maisie._ But it's too ridiculous! How _could_ he? When he never saw me, so far as I know, in all his life before! _Captain Thicknesse._ He told Mrs. Chatteris you were the original of his "Lady Grisoline" anyway, and really---- _Lady Maisie._ He dared to tell her that? How disgracefully impertinent of him. (_To herself._) So long as he hasn't talked about my letter, he may say what he pleases! _Captain Thicknesse._ But what _was_ it you were goin' to explain to me? You said there was somethin'---- _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). It's no use; I'd sooner die than tell him about that letter now! (_Aloud._) I--I only wished you to understand that, whatever I think about poetry--I detest poets! _Lady Cantire._ Yes, as you say, Bishop, a truly Augustan mode of recreation. Still, Mr. Spurrell doesn't seem to have come in yet, so I shall have time to hear anything you have to say in defence of your opposition to Parish Councils. [_The_ Bishop _resigns himself to the inevitable_. _Archie_ (_in_ PILLINER'S _ear_). Ink and flour--couldn't possibly miss him; the bard's got a matted head _this_ time, and no mistake. [Illustration: "INK AND FLOUR--COULDN'T POSSIBLY MISS HIM."] _Pilliner._ Beastly bad form, _I_ call it--with a fellow you don't know. You'll get yourself into trouble some day. And you couldn't even bring your own ridiculous booby-trap off, for here the beggar comes, as if nothing had happened. _Archie_ (_disconcerted_). Confound him! The best booby trap I _ever_ made! _The Bishop._ My dear Lady Cantire, here _is_ our youthful poet, at the eleventh hour. (_To himself._) "_Sic me servavit_ Apollo!" [Miss SPELWANE _advances to meet_ SPURRELL, _who stands surveying the array of chairs in blank bewilderment_. PART XVII A BOMB SHELL _In a Gallery near the Verney Chamber._ TIME--_Same as that of the preceding Part._ _Spurrell_ (_to himself_). I must say it's rather rough luck on that poor devil. I get his dress suit, and all _he_ comes in for is my booby-trap! (PHILLIPSON, _wearing a holland blouse over her evening toilette, approaches from the other end of the passage; he does not recognise her until the moment of collision_.) Emma!! It's never _you_! How do you come to be _here_? _Phillipson_ (_to herself_). Then it _was_ my Jem after all! (_Aloud, distantly._) I'm here in attendance on Lady Maisie Mull, being her maid. If I was at all curious--which I'm not--I might ask you what _you_'re doing in such a house as this; and in evening dress, if you please!