“_Something about a bird of some kind!_” Lady Muriel repeated, with as much withering scorn as her sweet face was capable of conveying. “And that’s the way he speaks of Shelley’s Sky-Lark, is it? When the Poet particularly says ‘_Hail to thee, blithe spirit!_ Bird _thou never wert_!’” [Illustration: LORDS OF THE CREATION] She led the way to the smoking-room, where, ignoring all the usages of Society and all the instincts of Chivalry, the three Lords of the Creation reposed at their ease in low rocking-chairs, and permitted the one lady who was present to glide gracefully about among us, supplying our wants in the form of cooling drinks, cigarettes, and lights. Nay, it was only _one_ of the three who had the chivalry to go beyond the common-place “thank you,” and to quote the Poet’s exquisite description of how Geraint, when waited on by Enid, was moved “To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb That crossed the platter as she laid it down,” and to suit the action to the word—an audacious liberty for which, I feel bound to report, he was _not_ duly reprimanded. As no topic of conversation seemed to occur to any one, and as we were, all four, on those delightful terms with one another (the only terms, I think, on which any friendship, that deserves the name of _intimacy_, can be maintained) which involve no sort of necessity for _speaking_ for mere speaking’s sake, we sat in silence for some minutes. At length I broke the silence by asking “Is there any fresh news from the harbour about the Fever?” “None since this morning,” the Earl said, looking very grave. “But that was alarming enough. The Fever is spreading fast: the London doctor has taken fright and left the place, and the only one now available isn’t a regular doctor at all: he is apothecary, and doctor, and dentist, and I don’t know what other trades, all in one. It’s a bad outlook for those poor fishermen—and a worse one for all the women and children.” “How many are there of them altogether?” Arthur asked. “There were nearly one hundred, a week ago.” said the Earl: “but there have been twenty or thirty deaths since then.” “And what religious ministrations are there to be had?” “There are three brave men down there,” the Earl replied, his voice trembling with emotion, “gallant heroes as ever won the Victoria Cross! I am certain that no one of the three will ever leave the place merely to save his own life. There’s the Curate: his wife is with him: they have no children. Then there’s the Roman Catholic Priest. And there’s the Wesleyan Minister. They go amongst their own flocks, mostly; but I’m told that those who are dying like to have _any_ of the three with them. How slight the barriers seem to be that part Christian from Christian, when one has to deal with the great facts of Life and the reality of Death!” “So it must be, and so it should be——” Arthur was beginning, when the front-door bell rang, suddenly and violently.