"Certainly innocent enough sir," observed Reginald lightly, "but the fact is we have been listening to Mr. Beaumont." "And the discourse?" asked the vicar, taking a cup of tea from Pumpkin. "The decadence of Literature and the Drama in England," replied Beaumont with a smile. "Ah, indeed. I'm afraid, Mr. Beaumont, I know nothing of the drama, except the Bard of Avon----" "Whom Mr. Beaumont likes, in moderation," interrupted Pumpkin mischievously. "Certainly," assented Beaumont gravely. "I like all things in moderation." "Even Horace," whispered Dick to Reginald, who laughed loudly and then apologised for his untimely mirth. "As to literature," said Dr. Larcher ponderously, "I'm afraid there is rather a falling off--we are frivolous--yes, decidedly frivolous." "I wish we were anything half so pleasant," remarked Beaumont, "I'm afraid we're decidedly dull." "The wave of genius which began with this present century," said the vicar pompously, "has now spent its force and to a great extent died away--soon it will gather again and sweep onward." "If it would only sweep away a few hundred of our present writers, I don't think anyone would mind," said the artist laughing. "_Sed omnes una manet nox_," observed Dr. Larcher with a grim smile. "What, all our present day scribblers? What a delightful thing for the twentieth century." Dr. Larcher smiled blandly as he set down his cup, for he liked his Horatian allusions to be promptly taken up, and began to think Beaumont rather good company. He nodded kindly to the whole party, and was about to turn away when a sudden thought struck him. "Do you want to see me, Mr. Beaumont?" he asked looking at the artist. "Yes, I do," replied that gentleman, rising leisurely to his feet. "I wish to speak to you about Blake, and also I wish Blake to be present." "Oh, I'll come," cried Reginald, springing forward with alacrity, for he guessed what the conversation would be about. "Come then to my study," said Dr. Larcher. "Pumpkin, my child, you had better come inside, as the night is coming on." As the three gentlemen walked towards the house, Pumpkin commenced putting the tea-things together in order to take them inside. Dick, who had risen to his feet, was staring after Beaumont with something like a frown on his fresh, young face. "What's the matter, Dick?" asked Pumpkin, pausing for a moment. "Eh?" said Dick, starting a little, "oh, nothing, only I don't like him." "Whom?" "Mr. Beaumont," said Pemberton thoughtfully. "I think he's a humbug." "I'm sure he's a most delightful man," observed Ferdinand loftily. "Oh, you'd think anyone delightful who praised your poetry," retorted Dick rudely, "but I do not like Beaumont; he's very clever and talks well, no doubt, but he's an outsider all the same." "What makes you think so?" said Pumpkin, looking at him with the tray in her hands.