“Ay,” sneered a seventh. “And in the same book he confounded men with women, and women with men in a way which was at times _absolutely shocking_.” He turned his eyes down at the last words and shook his head. He had perhaps heard some old lady use the same expression. “This is the spirit,” said another, “who flung down a challenge at the gate of heaven and expected to escape the fire of hell.” The sudden onslaught would in another place and at another time have provoked me to some answer, but I felt myself incapable of it. I was learning still further that every prisoner here simply endures—having no power, sometimes feeling no wish, to retaliate. This latter was the case with me. I felt a certain coldness clinging round me which numbed the sharper edge of feeling, so I sat there apparently indifferent to their scoffing, and felt inwardly the same. Following this outburst Plucritus rose, laughing. “I must go,” he observed. “It is growing late. Genius, I must leave you, but I shall return ere long. Till then, think upon my offer of the ring.” “Genius?” cried he who had first spoken, “Is this Genius?” “That cannot be,” exclaimed another, solemnly. “He has produced nothing in blank verse.” “It’s out of fashion,” urged another. “Love-letters are all that are needed nowadays.” “You’re getting behind the times,” said another, talking at random. “Read the _Daily Scorcher_.” “Is that written in blank verse?” “Oh, no. It’s after the same rhythm as ‘Mary had a little lamb.’” “What do you mean? If you cast a slur upon them they will prosecute you.” “I said nothing detrimental. I simply meant to convey the impression that they wrote in a popular vein.” “I see. But at that rate you ought to quote the poet-laureate.” There was a silence till someone queried, rather quietly,— “What’s his name?” “Don’t know,” answered the one who had first spoken. “He hasn’t got one. He doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. He leaves it to the lady novelists who won’t have their photo taken.” “What does he believe in?” “Blank verse and popular ballads, Chip potatoes and lettuce salads.” “The two last are very good,” said he who had put the question. “The poet-laureate is undoubtedly a gentleman.” I think in the midst of this random and unceasing talking I must have fallen asleep, for when I again became conscious of the things around me I was lying on my bed amid the silence of night. I was experiencing that misty, unreal sensation which, when accompanied by dejection and depression, is so terrible to bear. At times I felt it must simply be a phase, a part of the working of my own inner spirit, but again I realised that the force acting on me was external, and that this unreality was simply a more horrible form of what was real. I lay awake for a long time wrapped in thought, and when that light born out of darkness which they call “Day” had risen I rose too and prepared to descend to the lower hall.