"I'm afraid I'm rather dense this afternoon," he said with hasty apology, "I think your first act is beautifully written--the lines are full of music; nobody with an ear for euphony could doubt that; but I--forgive me, I fancy you are sometimes a shade too metaphysical--and those scientific terms which you occasionally employ, I fear will be a little over the heads of the general public----" "My dear Roderick, do you suppose that in an age whose highest characteristic is the rapid advance of scientific knowledge, there can be anybody so benighted as not to understand the terminology of science?" "Perhaps not, dear. I fear I am very much behind the times. I have lived too much in Hampshire. I frankly confess that some expressions in your--er--Tragedy of--er--Soulless Scept--Sceptic Soul--were Greek to me." "Poor dear Roderick, I should hardly take you as the highest example of the _Zeitgeist;_ but I won't allow you to call yourself stupid. I'm glad you like the swing of the verse. Did it remind you of any contemporary poet?" "Well, yes, I think it dimly suggested Browning." "I am glad of that. I would not for worlds be an imitator; but Browning is my idol among poets." "Some of his minor pieces are awfully jolly," said the incorrigible Rorie. "That little poem called 'Youth and Art,' for instance. And 'James Lee's Wife' is rather nice, if one could quite get at what it means. But I suppose that is too much to expect from any great poet?" "There are deeper meanings beneath the surface--meanings which require study," replied Mabel condescendingly. "Those are the religion of poetry----" "No doubt," assented Rorie hastily; "but frankly, my dear Mabel, if you want your book to be popular----" "I don't want my book to be popular. Browning is not popular. If I had wanted to be popular, I should have worked on a lower level. I would even have stooped to write a novel." "Well then I will say, if you want your poem to be understood by the average intellect, I really would sink the scientific terminology, and throw overboard a good deal of the metaphysics. Byron has not a scientific or technical phrase in all his poems." "My dear Roderick, you surely would not compare me to Byron, the poet of the Philistines. You might as well compare me with the author of 'Lalla Rookh,' or advise me to write like Rogers or Campbell." "I beg your pardon, my dear Mabel. I'm afraid I must be an out and out Philistine, for to my mind Byron is the prince of poets. I would rather have written 'The Giaour' than anything that has ever been published since it appeared." "My poor Roderick!" exclaimed Mabel, with a pitying sigh. "You might as well say you would be proud of having written 'The Pickwick Papers'." "And so I should!" cried Rorie heartily. "I should think no end of myself if I had invented Winkle. Do you remember his ride from Rochester to Dingley Dell?--one of the finest things that was ever written."