I thought that Leeson cut the time over our cigars rather short, and we had no sooner returned to the drawing-room than he began again. "I won't keep you more than a few moments," he said, "but I very much want your opinion of a new poet I have discovered. I have his work here," and out came the deadly book, "and I want to read one or two brief things." "Oh, George, dear," said Mrs. Leeson, "do you mind postponing that for a little? Miss Langton is very kindly going to sing for us, and she has to leave early." Leeson accepted the situation with as much philosophy as he could muster. As a rule I am bored by amateur, or indeed any, singing after dinner, but I looked at Miss Langton with an expression which a Society paper reporter might easily have misconstrued. Long before she had finished we were all calling out, "Thank you! Thank you! Encore! Encore!" Leeson alone was faint in his praises and his face fell to a lower depth when she began again. No sooner had she finished and gone than he was planning another effort, but during the opportunity afforded by her departure we had, with great address, divided ourselves into such animated groups that Mrs. Leeson, like a tactful hostess, laid her hand on his arm and caused him again to postpone it. He wandered forlornly from chair to chair, seeking an opening, and at last ventured to clear his throat and again ask if we would like to hear his new poet. "I assure you he's wonderful!" But at this moment old Lady Thistlewood uttered a little cry and at once bells were rung for sal-volatile. Her ladyship, it seems, is subject to attacks of faintness. When next Leeson made his proposal the Buntons rose and, expressing every variety of sorrow and regret, stated that they had no idea it was so late and they must really tear themselves away; Mrs. Bunton tactfully taking down the title of this dear new poet's book and its publisher. This being the signal for the others to leave, I soon found myself alone. "Now!" said Leeson with a triumphant expression. "Thank goodness they're out of the way and we're quiet and snug. Now you shall hear my poet." He felt for the book. "I tell you----" He stopped in dismay. "I could have sworn it was in my pocket," he said, and began to hunt about the room. "Where on earth can it be?" he said. I helped him to look for it, but in vain. "Perhaps Mrs. Bunton took it?" I suggested. "I'm sure she didn't," he replied. "Perhaps Mrs. Leeson has it?" I said. But she had not. The last time she had seen it it was on the table after Mrs. Bunton copied the title. Leeson was so utterly dejected that I felt almost sorry for him. "Well," he said at last, "that's the strangest thing I ever heard of. What a disappointment! I did want you to hear it." But it was precisely because I didn't that in my own pocket was the volume's present hiding-place. When the front door had closed behind me half-an-hour later, I slipped it into the letter-box.