_She_ (_decisively_). Nurse has hair. [_This really seems unanswerable. Having amended Phoebus Apollo I start in with my marmalade. After a lapse of a few minutes a low hammering is heard from somewhere on the floor at the far side of the table._] _I._ Whatever are you doing, Priscilla? _She._ Sooing my horse. [_She is discovered beating the wheels of a grey wooden flat-backed animal on a stand with a hammer procured from heaven alone knows where._] _I._ Well, don't hit him on the wheels, anyhow. (_A pause, subdued noises and a sigh._) What are you doing now, Priscilla? _She._ Sooing him on his back. _I._ Doesn't that hurt him? _She._ It hurts him very much, but he doesn't _say_ anything. [_I come round to give veterinary advice._] _I._ Don't you love your horse, Priscilla? _She._ Yes, he's my friendly horse. _I._ Well, don't bang him about like that; all the paint's coming off him. [_The carpet is in fact bestrewn with small flakes of grey paint from the unhappy creature's flanks._] _She_ (_derisively_). Ho! that isn't paint. That's snorts. _I_ (_helplessly_). Whatever do you mean? _She._ That's snorts. Snorts from his mouf. White snorts. _I._ But why is your horse snorting from his mouth, Priscilla? _She._ He's snorting from his mouf because I'm sooing him on his back. Well, there you are, you know; what is one going to do about it? There is a sort of specious plausibility about these replies after all; I am no farrier, but I should think it quite likely that if you shoed a cart-horse long enough on the back with a large enough hammer he _would_ snort white snorts from his mouth; and it's no use telling the girl that she can't jump from realism to romance in that disingenuous manner. Besides she might start hammering the wheels again. Or else she would say that her horse _said_ he was snorting, and who am I to contradict a British horse? I used to consider myself pretty good at what are called back-answers and I still believe that with a little practice I could hold my own in Whitechapel or the House of Commons, but there are subtle transitions about Priscilla's method of argument with which only a Prime Minister could cope. It carries too many guns for me. It cramps my style. V. * * * * * A CORNISH COTTAGE. Beside the clock two spaniels stand, Two china spaniels golden-spotted; On a lace d'oyley (contraband) Beams a red-faced geranium (potted). Framed portraits rest on woollen mats, Black-bearded smugglers with their spouses; The gentlemen wear bowler hats, The ladies sport their Sunday blouses. Two pictures decorate the wall, Vesuvius spouting sparks and ashes, The brig _Calypso_ in a squall, Full-sailed despite the lightning flashes. Without, the dark Atlantic flings Against the cliff its booming surges, And, as a shell, the snug room rings With its reverberating dirges.