_Bertie._ Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he _does_ mention it ... I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen. [_He reads._ "Uprears the monster now his slobberous head, Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing; Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread, Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing." [Illustration: "I'll read you a regular rouser called 'A Trumpet Blast.'"] And so on, don't you know.... Now I'll read you a regular rouser called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody! [_He reads._ "Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for _you_, dear ARCHIE!) Blink your blearèd eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!) Behold the Sun-- --Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence, Demos dawning, and the Darkness--done!" [_General hilarity_, _amidst which_ Lady CULVERIN _enters._ _Lady Culverin._ So _glad_ you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear VIVIEN? _Miss Spelw._ 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 Culv._ (_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 Culv._ 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 Spelw._ Dear Lady CULVERIN, the verses are quite, _quite_ beautiful; it was only the way they were read. _Lady Culv._ 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 Spelw._ 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._