_Spurr. (to himself)._ Better give her the chance of telling me what's wrong with the horse, I suppose. (_Aloud._) Er--nice old-fashioned sort of house this, Lady CULVERIN. (_To himself._) I'll work round to the stabling presently. _Lady Culv. (coldly)._ I believe it dates from the Tudors--if that is what you mean. _Lady Cant._ My dear ALBINIA, I _quite_ understand him; "old-fashioned" is _exactly_ the epithet. And I was born and brought up here, so perhaps I should know. [_A footman enters, and comes up to_ SPURRELL _mysteriously._ _Footman._ Will you let me have your keys, if you please, Sir? _Spurr. (in some alarm)._ My keys! (_Suspiciously._) Why, what do you want _them_ for? _Lady Cant. (in a whisper)._ Isn't he _deliciously_ unsophisticated? Quite a child of nature! (_Aloud._) My dear Mr. SPURRELL, he wants your keys to unlock your portmanteau and put out your things; you'll be able to dress for dinner all the quicker. _Spurr._ Do you mean--am I to have the honour of sitting down with all of _you_? _Lady Culv. (to herself)._ Oh, my goodness, what _will_ RUPERT say? (_Aloud._) Why, of course, Mr. SPURRELL; how can you ask? _Spurr. (feebly)._ I--I didn't know, that was all. (_To_ Footman). Here you are, then. (_To himself._) Put out my things? he'll find nothing to put out except a nightgown, sponge bag, and a couple of brushes! If I'd only known I should be let in for this, I'd have brought dress-clothes. But how _could_ I? I--I wonder if it would be any good telling 'em quietly how it is. I shouldn't like 'em to think I hadn't got any. (_He looks at_ Lady CANTIRE _and her sister-in-law, who are talking in an undertone._) No, perhaps I'd better let it alone. I--I can allude to it in a joky sort of way when I come down! * * * * * TO MY BEEF TEA. (_By Our Dyspeptic Poet._) When the doctor's stern decree Rings the knell of libertee, And dismisses from my sight All the dishes that delight; When my temperature is high-- When to pastry and to pie Duty bids me say farewell, Then I hail thy fragrant smell! When the doctor shakes his head, Banning wine or white or red, And at all my well-loved joints Disapproving finger points; When my poultry too he stops, Then, reduced to taking "slops," I, for solace and relief, Fly to thee, O Tea of Beef! But--if simple truth I tell-- I can brook thee none too well; Thy delights, O Bovine Tea, Have no special charm for me! Though thou comest piping hot, Oh, believe I love thee not! Weary of thy gentle reign-- Give me oysters and champagne! * * * * * "CLUBS! CLUBS!" ["FRY of Wadham," illustrious all-round athlete of Oxford, holds that Golf is no better than "glorified Croquet."]