Mrs. Oliver, catching Eddy’s eye as he introduced her, saw that he was proud of this one among his visitors. She knew the look, radiant, half shy, the look of a nice child introducing an admired school friend to his people, sure they will get on, thinking how jolly for both of them to know each other. The less nice child has a different look, mistrustful, nervous, anxious, lest his people should disgrace themselves.... Mrs. Oliver gave Mrs. Le Moine tea. They all talked. Eileen had brought in with her a periodical she had been reading in the train, which had in it a poem by Billy Raymond. Arnold picked it up and read it, and said he was sorry about it. Eddy then read it and said, “I rather like it. Don’t you, Eileen? It’s very much Billy in a certain mood, of course.” Arnold said it was Billy reacting with such violence against Masefield--a very sensible procedure within limits--that he had all but landed himself in the impressionist preciosity of the early Edwardians. Eileen said, “It’s Billy when he’s been lunching with Cecil. He’s often taken like that then.” The Dean said, “And who’s Cecil?” Eileen said, “My husband,” and the Dean and Mrs. Oliver weren’t sure if, given one was living apart from one’s husband, it was quite nice to mention him casually at tea like that; more particularly when he had just written a censored play. The Dean, in order not to pursue the subject of Mr. Le Moine, held out his hand for the _Blue Review_, and perused Billy’s production, which was called “The Mussel Picker.” He laid it down presently and said, “I can’t say I gather any very coherent thought from it.” Arnold said, “Quite. Billy hadn’t any just then. That is wholly obvious. Billy sometimes has, but occasionally hasn’t, you know. Billy is at times, though by no means always, a shallow young man.” “Shallow young men produce a good deal of our modern poetry, it seems to me from my slight acquaintance with it,” said the Dean. “One misses the thought in it that made the Victorian giants so fine.”