Graham. Now, rest you here; I've business in the house: And when I come I'll bring my daughter. Ha! [To Hallowes.] She lives on poetry; you'll soon be friends; [To Smith.] While you and I and Brown will talk again Of London. What!--you called it--let me see-- The running sore, the ringworm of the earth. Good, very good. [Goes out. Hallowes. You'll make excuse for me. Smith. Why are you so reluctant to remain? Hallowes. You do not see the meaning of the knight. We trespass in his wood: he meets us; storms, And plays his gamekeeper. Our witty talk Changes his character, and--we are here: But mark, on trial; else, not his arbour, But his drawing-room. Smith. He brings his daughter, though. Hallowes. True; but you see our humour was so broad. Smith. Therefore he does not take us to his house? Suppose it so, is he the less a man? Why, it's a powerful thing to do. Hallowes. Indeed! Snobbish, say I. Smith. Away, man! Use that word! A poet, too! Oh, I could rail at it! Snob! It's a modern word; and so is cad: None use them but deservers of them. Faugh; So bitterly I hate them, into sense My spleen spins slovenly. We all are men. Doomsday of nicknames! I behold it dawn. An inky cloud, with thick corrosive stench, Blots out the heavens, and like a palimpsest Shows name on name in smoking characters, A leprous scroll, too filthy to o'er-read: Beneath them, branded deep athwart the cloud In letters huge from which the light scales off, The most inhuman, most ungodly word, Sinner. But lo! the rotten-fuming signs Smoulder and writhe, and run like mercury, Flooding the cloud, which belches into flame And shrivels up beyond the bounds of space! A rose-dipped pencil washes suddenly A blush along the east, whereon appears In molten gold, Man, Woman; and I know That we are all one race, and these nicknames, Phantasmal charnel-lights of self-contempt. Hallowes. You know I have not always strength of wing To soar like you right to God's point of view. Pardon the word. Now, you must let me go. Smith. You give no cause: poetic mood won't do. I see a mental sickness in your eye: What is it, Hallowes? Hallowes. Why, my money's done: And day by day from London packets come-- Dramas and poems, essays and reviews, Returned with thanks, returned with thanks. Smith. Just so. Ten pounds I have: take half: when this is spent Then we return with thanks to London town. You have your ticket? Hallowes. Oh, yes! Smith. Cheer up, then! We have a fortnight yet. Sit down and talk Of comfortable things. We'll meditate Upon return-tickets for a while: How beautifully suited to our need, Spendthrifts like us! Devise some praise for them. Hallowes. O let me go! I have my note-book here. I'll climb to Merlin-top and write all night Under the moon or till you follow me. Smith.