_Lady Maisie._ You really don't see! Well, then, you _shall_. He arrives late, and finds that somebody else is here already in his character. He makes no fuss; manages to get a private interview with the person who is passing as himself; when, of course, he soon discovers that poor Mr. SPURRELL is as much deceived as anybody else. What is he to do? Humiliate the unfortunate man by letting him know the truth? Mortify my Uncle and Aunt by a public explanation before a whole dinner-party? That is what a stupid or a selfish man might have done, almost without thinking. But not Mr. BLAIR. He has too much tact, too much imagination, too much chivalry for that. He saw at once that his only course was to spare his host and hostess, and--and all of us a scene, by slipping away quietly and unostentatiously, as he had come. _Lady Rhoda_ (_yawning_). If he saw all that, why didn't he _do_ it? _Lady Maisie_ (_indignantly_). Why? How provoking you can be, RHODA! _Why?_ Because that stupid TREDWELL wouldn't let him! Because ARCHIE delayed him by some idiotic practical joke! Because Mr. SPURRELL went and blurted it all out!... Oh, don't try to run down a really fine act like that; because you can't--you simply _can't_! _Lady Rhoda_ (_after a low whistle_). No idea it had gone so far as that--already! _Now_ I begin to see why GERRY THICKNESSE has been lookin' as if he'd sat on his best hat, and why he told your Aunt he might have to be off to-morrow; which is all stuff, because I happen to know his leave ain't up for two or three days yet. But he sees this Troubadour has put his poor old nose out of joint for him. _Lady Maisie_ (_flushing_). Now, RHODA, I won't have you talking as if--as if---- _You_ ought to know, if GERALD THICKNESSE doesn't, that it's nothing at all of that sort! It's just---- Oh, I can't _tell_ you how some of his poems moved me, what new ideas, wider views they seemed to teach; and then how _dreadfully_ it hurt to think it was only Mr. SPURRELL after all!... But _now_--oh, the _relief_ of finding they're not spoilt; that I can still admire, still look up to the man who wrote them! Not to have to feel that he is quite commonplace--not even a gentleman--in the ordinary sense! _Lady Rhoda_ (_rising_). Ah well, I prefer a hero who looks as if he had his hair cut, occasionally--but then, I'm not romantic. He may be the paragon you say; but if I was you, my dear, I wouldn't expect too much of that young man--allow a margin for shrinkage, don't you know. And now I think I'll turn into my little crib, for I'm dead tired. Good night; don't sit up late readin' poetry; it's my opinion you've read quite enough as it is! [_She goes._