“No, no; that is not the kind of play to fill the theatre,” said she. “Oh, do not be afraid; it will be very strange if between us we cannot hit upon a title that will deserve, if not a coronet, at least a wreath of laurel.” Sir Joshua, who was sitting at the head of the table, not far away, had put up his ear-trumpet between the courses, and caught a word or two of the girl's sentence. “I presume that you are still discussing the great title question,” said he. “You need not do so. Have I not given you my assurance that 'The Belle's Stratagem' is the best name that the play could receive?” “Nay, that title Dr. Goldsmith holds to be one of the 'mistakes of a Knight!'” said Mr. Bunbury in a low tone. He delighted in a pun, but did not like too many people to hear him make one. “'The Belle's Stratagem' I hold to be a good enough title until we get a better,” said Goldsmith. “I have confidence in the ingenuity of Miss Horneck to discover the better one.” “Nay, I protest if you do not take my title I shall go to the playhouse and damn the play,” said Reynolds. “I have given it its proper name, and if it appears in public under any other it will have earned the reprobation of all honest folk who detest an _alias_.” “Then that name shall stand,” said Goldsmith. “I give you my word, Sir Joshua, I would rather see my play succeed under your title than have it damned under a title given to it by the next best man to you in England.” “That is very well said, indeed,” remarked Sir Joshua. “It gives evidence of a certain generosity of feeling on your part which all should respect.” Miss Kauffman, who sat at Sir Joshua's right, smiled a trifle vaguely, for she had not quite understood the drift of Goldsmith's phrase, but from the other end of the table there came quite an outburst of laughter. Garrick sat there with Mrs. Bunbury and Baretti, to whom he was telling an imaginary story of Ould Grouse in the gun-room. Dr. Burney, who sat at the other side of the table, had ventured to question the likelihood of an audience's apprehending the humour of the story at which Diggory had only hinted. He wondered if the story should not be told for the benefit of the playgoers. A gentleman whom Bunbury had brought to dinner--his name was Colonel Gwyn, and it was known that he was a great admirer of Mary Horneck--took up the question quite seriously. “For my part,” he said, “I admit frankly that I have never heard the story of Grouse in the gun-room.” “Is it possible, sir?” cried Garrick. “What, you mean to say that you are not familiar with the reply of Ould Grouse to the young woman who asked him how he found his way into the gun-room when the door was locked--that about every gun having a lock, and so forth?” “No, sir,” cried Colonel Gwyn. “I had no idea that the story was a familiar one. It seems interesting, too.”