Mrs. St. Quinten was nearer, to my way of thinking, in this respect than the others; and therefore I appealed to her while the tea-things were still before her, thinking that I might obtain from her a suggestion in favour of the conversations. The introductory poem and the Latin ballad were gone. For spilt milk what wise man weeps? My verses had not even left my pocket. Not one there knew that they had been written. And I was determined that not one should know. But my conversations might still live. Ah, if I could only blend the elements! “Sophronie,” said I, taking courage, and speaking with a voice from which all sense of shame and fear of failure were intended to be banished; “Sophronie will tell us what she intends to do for us herself.” I looked into my friend’s face and saw that she liked it. But she turned to her cousin, Churchill Smith, as though for approval,--and met none. “We had better be in earnest,” said Churchill Smith, without moving a muscle in his face or giving the slightest return to the glance which had fallen upon him from his cousin. “No one can be more thoroughly in earnest than myself,” I replied. “Let us have no calling of names,” said Churchill Smith. “It is inappropriate, and especially so when a lady is concerned.” “It has been done scores of times,” I rejoined; “and that too in the very highest phases of civilisation, and among the most discreet of matrons.” “It seems to me to be twaddle,” said Walter Watt. “To my taste it’s abominably vulgar,” said Churchill Smith. “It has answered very well in other magazines,” said I. “That’s just the reason we should avoid it,” said Walter Watt. “I think the thing has been about worn out,” said Pat Regan.