She was the girl who was teaching the poet the elements of ping-pong. The poet usually missed the ball, for he was averse to and unapt for anything requiring quickness of eye and dexterity of hand. On a seat lay open a volume of the _Poetry of the Celtic Renascence_, which Blake had been reading to Miss Macrae till she used the vulgar phrase 'footle,' and invited him to be educated in ping-pong. Of these circumstances she cheerfully informed the new-comers, adding that Lord Bude had returned happy, having photographed a wild cat in its lair. 'Did he shoot it?' asked Blake. 'No. He's a sportsman!' said Miss Macrae. 'That is why I supposed he must have shot the cat,' answered Blake. 'What is Gaelic for a wild cat, Blake?' asked Merton unkindly. Like other modern Celtic poets Mr. Blake was entirely ignorant of the melodious language of his ancestors, though it had often been stated in the literary papers that he was 'going to begin' to take lessons. '_Sans purr_,' answered Blake; 'the Celtic wild cat has not the servile accomplishment of purring. The words, a little altered, are the motto of the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders. This is the country of the wild cat.' 'I thought the "wild cat" was a peculiarly American financial animal,' said Merton. Miss Macrae laughed, and, the gong sounding (by electricity, the wire being connected with the Greenwich Observatory), she ran lightly up the central staircase. Lady Bude had hurried to rejoin her lord; Merton and Blake sauntered out to their rooms in the observatory, Blake with an air of fatigue and languor. 'Learning ping-pong easily?' asked Merton. 'I have more hopes of teaching Miss Macrae the essential and intimate elements of Celtic poetry,' said Blake. 'One box of books I brought with me, another arrived to-day. I am about to begin on my Celtic drama of "Con of the Hundred Battles."' 'Have you the works of the ancient Sennachie, Macfootle?' asked Merton. He was jealous, and his usual urbanity was sorely tried by the Irish bard. In short, he was rude; stupid, too. However, Blake had his revenge after dinner, on the roof of the observatory, where the ladies gathered round him in the faint silver light, looking over the sleeping sea. 'Far away to the west,' he said, 'lies the Celtic paradise, the Isle of Apples!' 'American apples are excellent,' said Merton, but the beauty of the scene and natural courtesy caused Miss Macrae to whisper 'Hush!' The poet went on, 'May I speak to you the words of the emissary from the lovely land?' 'The mysterious female?' said Merton brutally. 'Dr. Hyde calls her "a mysterious female." It is in his _Literary History of Ireland_.' 'Pray let us hear the poem, Mr. Merton,' said Miss Macrae, attuned to the charm of the hour and the scene. 'She came to Bran's Court,' said Blake, 'from the Isle of Apples, and no man knew whence she came, and she chanted to them.'