He shook his head and lapsed into a melancholy silence. Certainly his nerves required bracing up for the ordeal, and many glasses of ’89 Pommery went to that process. When dinner was done, we strolled out upon the verandah and found Miss Fordibras and her chaperone, Miss Aston, drinking coffee at one of the little tables in the vestibule. They made way for us at once, as though we had been expected, and I presented McShanus to them immediately. “Mr. Timothy McShanus—the author of ‘Ireland and Her Kings.’ He’s descended from the last of them, I believe. Is it not so, McShanus?” “From all of them, Dr. Fabos. Me father ruled Ireland in the past, and me sons will rule it in the future. Ladies, your servant. Be not after calling me an historian. ’Tis a poet I am when not in the police courts.” Miss Aston, the elderly lady with the short hair and the glasses, took McShanus seriously, I am afraid. She began to speak to him of Browning and Walt Whitman and Omar Khayyam. I drew my chair near to Miss Fordibras and took my text from the common talk. “No one reads poetry nowadays,” I said. “We have all grown too cynical. Even McShanus does not consider his immortal odes worth publishing.” “They will perish with me in an abbey tomb,” said he; “a thousand years from now, ’tis the professors from New Zealand who will tell the world what McShanus wrote.” Miss Aston suggested a little tritely that much modern poetry should be so treated. “Time is the true critic,” she exclaimed majestically, and McShanus looked at me as who should say, “She has some experience of that same Time.” I turned to Joan Fordibras and asked her to defend the poets. “The twentieth century gives us no solitudes,” I said; “you cannot have poets without solitudes. We live in crowds nowadays. Even yachting is a little old-fashioned. Men go where other men can see them show off. Vanity takes them there—even Bridge is vanity, the desire to do better than the other man.” Miss Aston demurred. “There are some women who know nothing of vanity,” she said stonily. “We live within ourselves, and our lives are our own. Our whole existence is a solitude. We are most truly alone when many surround us.” “’Tis a compliment to my friend Fabos,” cried McShanus triumphantly. “Let me have the honour to escort ye to the Casino, lady, for such a man is no company for us. No doubt he’ll bring Miss Fordibras over when they’ve done with the poets. Will ye not, doctor?” I said that I should be delighted, and when the cloaks had been found we all set out for the Casino. Timothy was playing his part well, it appeared. I found myself alone with Joan Fordibras presently—and neither of us had the desire to hurry on to the Casino. In truth, the season at Dieppe had already begun to wane, and there were comparatively few people abroad on the parade by the sea-shore. We walked apart, a great moon making golden islands of light upon the sleeping sea, and the distant music of the Casino band in our ears.