_Mrs. Eff._ Ah, what a priceless destiny is yours, my babe--to live a lifetime in the eternal sunlight of his poet brain! _Car._ It is; but you shall share it--father--mother--brother--all! We will all share it, alway! I would not rob you of one ray that emanates from that divine face, for all the wealth of earth! _Mrs. Eff._ My unselfish girl! _Bul._ How nobly he looks when, sickened with the world, he turns his eyes inward to gaze upon his hidden self! _Mr. Eff._ None but Apollo ever looked as he looks then. _Car._ Truly. Yet--shall I confess that when I saw him first my idiot heart sank deep within me, because, in the expression of his thoughts, I did _not_ recognize Apollo’s stamp? _Bul._ Fie, Caroline! Would, you have a poet carry his muse pick-a-back, for daws to pick at? Fie, Caroline--oh, fie! _Mrs. Eff._ Some thoughts are too deep for utterance. _Car._ And some too precious. Why should he scatter such gems broadcast? My poet-warrior thinks them to himself. _Bul._ He does. It is his weird and warlike way. _Car._ He comes. (_Rises._) His fancy-flight has ended for the nonce. My soldier-minstrel has returned to earth! _TOM enters from balcony. CAROLINE goes to meet him, and brings him forward lovingly. His appearance is somewhat altered. He parts his hair in the centre, and allows it to grow long. He wears a very low lie-down collar in order to look Byronic. CAROLINE throws herself at his feet, and MR. and MRS. EFFINGHAM cross and group themselves about him. MRS. EFFINGHAM kneels, BULSTRODE standing moodily behind his mother._ _Mr. Eff._ Arthur, ennoble us. Raise us one step towards the Empyrean. Give us a Great Thought! _Bul._ From the vast treasures of your poet brain, we beg some spare small change. _Tom._ Well, I really don’t know; I haven’t anything just now. _Car._ We are the bees, and you the flower. We beg some honey for our little hives. _Tom_ (_with a desperate effort to be brilliant_). Talking of bees (_all take out note-books and write down what follows_)--talking of bees, have you ever remarked how the busy little insect avails herself of the sunshine to gather her sweet harvest from--from every opening flower? _Mr. Eff._ (_writing_). We have, we have. How true to fact! _Bul._ (_writing_). You said “her sweet harvest,” I think? _Tom._ Her sweet harvest. _Bul._ (_writing_). Her sweet harvest. (_All shake their heads and sigh._) _Tom._ Her honey, you know. _Bul._ Thank you. (_Sighs. All finish writing and put up their note-books._) _Mrs. Eff._ You are a close student of nature, sir. _Tom._ Yes, I do a good deal in that way. _Mrs. Eff._ How simple are his words, and yet what priceless pearls of thought lie encased beneath their outer crust! _Tom._ Yes, I always wrap them in an outer crust, to keep them from the cold. (_All take out note-books and write this down._) _Car._ (_writing_). “He wraps them in an outer crust To keep them from the cold!”