_Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris_ (_to herself_). This is fearfully puzzling. What made him say that about "Lady Grisoline"? _The Bishop_ (_to himself_). A crushing blow for the Countess; but not unsalutary. I am distinctly conscious of feeling more kindly disposed to that young man. Now why? [_He ponders._ _Lady Lullington_ (_to herself_). I thought this young man was going to read us some more of his poetry; it's too tiresome of him to stop to tell us about his bull-dog. As if anybody cared _what_ he called it! _Lord Lullington_ (_to himself_). Uncommonly awkward, this! If I could catch Laura's eye--but I suppose it would hardly be decent to go just yet. _Lady Culverin_ (_to herself_). Can Rohesia have known this? What possible object could she have had in---- And oh, dear, _how_ disgusted Rupert will be! _Sir Rupert_ (_to himself_). Seems a decent young chap enough! Too bad of Rohesia to let him in for this. I don't care a straw what he is--he's none the worse for not being a poet. _Lady Cantire_ (_to herself_). What _is_ he maundering about? It's utterly inconceivable that _I_ should have made any mistake. It's only too clear what the cause is--_Claret_! _Spurrell_ (_aloud, good-humouredly_). Too bad of you to try and spoof me like this before everybody, Miss Spelwane! I don't know whose idea it was to play me such a trick, but---- _Miss Spelwane_ (_indistinctly_). Please understand that nobody here had the _least_ intention of playing a trick upon you! _Spurrell._ Well, if you say so, of course---- But it looked rather like it, asking me to read when I've about as much poetry in me as--as a pot hat! Still, if I'm _wanted_ to read aloud, I shall be happy to---- _Lady Culverin_ (_hastily_). Indeed, _indeed_, Mr. Spurrell, we couldn't think of troubling you any more under the circumstances! (_In desperation._) Vivien, my dear, won't you _sing_ something? [_The company echo the request with unusual eagerness._