Reach me the helmet from yonder rack, _Mistress o' mine! with its plume of white_: Now help me upon my destrier's back, _Mistress o' mine! though he swerve in fright_. And guide my foot to the stirrup-ledge, _Mistress o' mine! it eludes me still_. Then fill me a cup as a farewell pledge, _Mistress o' mine! for the night air's chill_! Haste! with the buckler and pennon'd lance, _Mistress o' mine! or ever I feel_ My war-horse plunge in impatient prance, _Mistress o' mine! at the prick of heel_. Pay scant heed to my pallid hue, _Mistress o' mine! for the wan moon's sheen_ Doth blazon the gules o' my cheek with blue, _Mistress o' mine! or glamour it green_. One last long kiss, ere I seek the fray ... _Mistress o' mine! though I quit my sell_, I would meet the foe i' the mad mêlée. _Mistress o' mine! an' I were but well!_" (_After the murmur of conventional appreciation has died away._) Well, of course, I don't set up for a judge of such things myself, but I must say, if I was asked _my_ opinion--of all the downright tommy-rot I _ever_---- (_The company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page._) I _say_, though, I do call this _rather_ rum! Who the dickens is Clarion Blair? Because _I_ never heard of him--and yet it seems he's been writing poetry on my bull-dog! _Miss Spelwane_ (_faintly_). Writing poetry--about your bull-dog! _Spurrell._ Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be--_Andromeda_! [_Tableau._ PART XVIII THE LAST STRAW _After_ SPURRELL'S _ingenuous comments upon the volume in his hand, a painful silence ensues, which no one has sufficient presence of mind to break for several seconds_. _Miss Spelwane_ (_to herself_). Not Clarion Blair! Not even a poet! I--I could _slap_ him! _Pilliner_ (_to himself_). Poor dear Vivien! But if people will insist on patting a strange poet, they mustn't be surprised if they get a nasty bite! _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). He didn't write _Andromeda_! Then he hasn't got my letter after all! And I've been such a _brute_ to the poor dear man! _How_ lucky I said nothing about it to Gerald! _Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). So he _ain't_ the bard!... Now I see why Maisie's been behavin' so oddly all the evenin'; she spotted him, and didn't like to speak out. Tried to give me a hint, though. Well, I shall stay out my leave now! _Lady Rhoda_ (_to herself_). I thought all along he seemed too good a sort for a poet! _Archie_ (_to himself_). It's all very well; but how about that skit he went up to write on us? He _must_ be a poet of sorts.