_Miss Spelwane._ Bertie Pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear Lady Culverin--_the_ most ridiculous poetry--made us all simply shriek. What's the name of it? (_Taking the volume out of_ BERTIE'S _hand_.) Oh, _Andromeda, and other Poems_. By Clarion Blair. _Lady Culverin_ (_coldly_). Bertie Pilliner can turn everything into ridicule, we all know; but probably you are not aware that these particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges. Indeed, my sister-in-law---- _All_ (_in consternation_). Lady Cantire! Is _she_ the author? Oh, of course, if we'd had any idea---- _Lady Culverin._ I've no reason to believe that Lady Cantire ever composed _any_ poetry. I was only going to say that she was most interested in the author, and as she and my niece Maisie are coming to us this evening---- _Miss Spelwane._ Dear Lady Culverin, the verses are quite, _quite_ beautiful; it was only the way they were read. _Lady Culverin._ I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably be his neighbour to-night. I hope, Bertie, that you will remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that _I_ can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand. [_She passes on._ _Bertie_ (_plaintively, after_ Lady CULVERIN _has left the room_). May I trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you know, a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss Spelwane, how will you like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh? _Miss Spelwane._ Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining than a smooth one. And, if you've quite done with that volume, _I_ should like to have a look at it. [_She retires with it to her room._ _Archie_ (_to himself_). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin'; I never caught a Bard in a booby-trap _yet_. _Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). She's coming--this very evenin'! And I was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot! _Lady Rhoda._ So Lady Cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our hind legs now! But Maisie's a dear thing. Do you know her, Captain Thicknesse? _Captain Thicknesse._ I--I used to meet Lady Maisie Mull pretty often at one time; don't know if she'll remember it, though. _Lady Rhoda._ She'll love meetin' this writin' man--she's so fearfully romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealized by a great poet--sort of--what's their names--Petrarch and Beatrice business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see whether it comes off--won't it? _Captain Thicknesse_ (_choking_). I--ah--no affair of mine, really. (_To himself._) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that. Suppose I shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well, there's always Aldershot! [_The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and satisfaction._ PART III