"Charles is always late. He's a d----d careless fellow," said Mr. Golightly, and one felt the final judgment upon Charles had been passed. "Charles is not jigging with old Butterbun, is he?" asked little Peter Wingfield. "Oh! the d----l! not he," said Blewforth. "He's found a red-cheeked hussy with whom he's carrying on an intrigue." "Eh, what! Never?" exclaimed a chorus. "What's his charmer's name?" said Chalkley. "Burgundy," replied Blewforth with a great guffaw that made all the glasses and goblets and decanters on the big oak dresser ring an echo. "I never thought Charles cared much for wine or women," said Golightly. "Nor he don't," Blewforth put in. "Nor he don't. That's what beats me. But I tell you I saw Charles Lovely sitting in the taproom of the _World Turned Upside Down_. Nobody goes there unless he wishes to be drunk by nightfall. Eh, boys? So depend on't when Charles does arrive, he'll arrive drunk. But why? That's the riddle." "Perhaps the fair Courteen has slighted him," said Chalkley. "Serve him right. He had no business to take himself so seriously. 'Tis very fashionable to be a poet, but egad! 'tis devilish low to behave like one." "Is that Miss Phyllida Courteen?" said Vernon, trying to speak as though he had read her name in the list of visitors published every week by the proprietors of the _Curtain Wells Chronicle and Pump Room Intelligencer_. "Aye! d'ye know her? Blooming seventeen with a short upper lip, blue eyes and hair the colour of that chestnut gelding, What's His Name sold 'tother day." "Very poor animal," said Golightly. "Not at all. I disagree with you." "Very poor animal indeed," said Golightly. "It fetched a very pretty price." "Oh," said Mr. Golightly and the argument was over. "Does she carry a white swansdown muff?" asked Vernon. "Who?" "Miss Courteen." "Eh? Oh! I don't know," and since Mr. Chalkley's tone of voice implied a lack of further interest on the subject, the subject was dropped. "My belief is," said Lieutenant Blewforth loudly, and moving as he spoke in the direction of the fireplace. "Egad, Vernon would you take it unkind if I rang for a tankard of ale? I'm as dry as a gunner in action. My belief is," he went on spreading his coat-tails to the genial warmth, "my belief is----" "Gadslife! B-B-lewforth," interrupted Peter Wingfield, "pray get on with the recitation of your c-creed." "Don't get excited, little man," said Blewforth. "My belief is Charles wrote that book." "What book?" said Chalkley, whose acquaintance with the literature of the day was remarkably small. "Curtain Polls." "Never heard of it," said Mr. Chalkley. "Rubbish!" said Clare, entering suddenly into the conversation. "Rubbish!" and yet Mr. Anthony Clare was one of the two people in the room who knew for certain that Charles was, indeed, the author of that satirical trifle.