_Capt. Thick._ (_to himself, retreating_). That girl's always fishin' for compliments. I didn't rise _that_ time, though. It's precious slow here. I've a good mind to say I must get back to Aldershot this afternoon. [_He wanders aimlessly about the room;_ ARCHIE BEARPARK _looks out of window with undisguised boredom._ _Lady Rhoda._ I say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than this, you may as well go back to your billiards again. _Bertie._ Dear Lady RHODA, how cruel of you! You'll have to let _me_ stay. I'll be _so_ good. Look here, I'll read aloud to you. I _can_--quite prettily. What shall it be? you don't care? no more do I. I'll take the first that comes. (_He reaches for the nearest volume on a table close by._) How _too_ delightful! Poetry--which I know you _all_ adore. [_He turns over the leaves._ _Lady Rhoda._ If you ask _me_, I simply loathe it. _Bertie._ Ah, but then you never heard _me_ read it, you know. Now, here is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as if it had been misbehaving itself. "Disenchantment" it's called. [_He reads._ "My Love has sicklied unto Loath, And foul seems all that fair I fancied-- The lily's sheen a leprous growth, The very buttercups are rancid!" _Archie._ Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy! _Bertie. _He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea of "Abasement." [_He reads._ "With matted head a-dabble in the dust, And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust, I lie all loathly in my rags and rust-- Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust." Now, do you know, I rather like that--it's so very decadent! _Lady Rhoda._ I should call it utter rot, myself. _Bertie_ (_blandly_). Forgive me, Lady RHODA. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but _not_ "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich." [_He reads._ "The lark soars up in the air; The toad sits tight in his hole; And I would I were certain which of the pair Were the truer type of my soul!" _Archie._ I should be inclined to back the toad, myself. _Miss Spelw._ If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs? _Bertie._ I'll look. Yes, any amount--here's one. (_He reads_). "To My Lady." "Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe, Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green, Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe, Then--kiss me, Lady GRISOLINE!" _Miss Spelw._ (_interested_). So _that's_ his type. Does he mention whether she _did_ kiss him?