Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes. Anstey F.

my dear, but you'll have to drive then. Adams tells me the horse is as lame as ever this morning, and he don't know what to make of it. He suggested having Horsfall over, but I've no faith in the local vets myself, so I wired to town for old Spavin. He's seen Deerfoot before, and we could put him up for a night or two. (To Tredwell, the butler, who enters with a telegram.) Eh, for me? just wait, will you, in case there's an answer. (As he opens it.) Ah, this is from Spavin – h'm, nuisance! "Regret unable to leave at present, bronchitis, junior partner could attend immediately if required. – Spavin." Never knew he had a partner.

      Tredwell. I did hear, Sir Rupert, as Mr. Spavin was looking out for one quite recent, being hasthmatical, m'lady, and so I suppose this is him as the telegram alludes to.

      Sir Rupert. Very likely. Well, he's sure to be a competent man. We'd better have him, eh, Albinia?

      Lady Culverin. Oh yes, and he must stay till Deerfoot's better. I'll speak to Pomfret about having a room ready in the East Wing for him. Tell him to come by the 4.45, Rupert. We shall be sending the omnibus in to meet that.

      Sir Rupert. All right, I've told him. (Giving the form to Tredwell.) See that that's sent off at once, please. (After Tredwell has left.) By the way, Albinia, Rohesia may kick up a row if she has to come up in the omnibus with a vet, eh?

      Lady Culverin. Goodness, so she might! but he needn't go inside. Still, if it goes on raining like this – I'll tell Thomas to order a fly for him at the station, and then there can't be any bother about it.

      PART II

      SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET

      In the Morning Room at Wyvern. Lady Rhoda Cokayne, Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris, and Miss Vivien Spelwane are comfortably established near the fireplace. The Hon. Bertie Pilliner, Captain Thicknesse, and Archie Bearpark, have just drifted in.

      Miss Spelwane. Why, you don't mean to say you've torn yourselves away from your beloved billiards already? Quite wonderful!

      Bertie Pilliner. It's too horrid of you to leave us to play all by ourselves! We've all got so cross and fractious we've come in here to be petted!

[He arranges himself at her feet, so as to exhibit a very neat pair of silk socks and pumps.

      Captain Thicknesse (to himself). Do hate to see a fellow come down in the mornin' with evenin' shoes on!

      Archie Bearpark (to Bertie Pilliner). You speak for yourself, Pilliner. I didn't come to be petted. Came to see if Lady Rhoda wouldn't come and toboggan down the big staircase on a tea-tray. Do! It's clinkin' sport!

      Captain Thicknesse (to himself). If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a rowdy bullyraggin' ass like Archie!

      Lady Rhoda Cokayne. Ta muchly, dear boy, but you don't catch me travellin' downstairs on a tea-tray twice– it's just a bit too clinkin', don't you know!

      Archie Bearpark (disappointed). Why, there's a mat at the bottom of the stairs! Well, if you won't, let's get up a cushion fight, then. Bertie and I will choose sides. Pilliner, I'll toss you for first pick up – come out of that, do.

      Bertie Pilliner (lazily). Thanks, I'm much too comfy where I am. And I don't see any point in romping and rumpling one's hair just before lunch.

      Archie Bearpark. Well, you are slack. And there's a good hour still before lunch. Thicknesse, you suggest something, there's a dear old chap.

      Captain Thicknesse (after a mental effort). Suppose we all go and have another look round at the gees – eh, what?

      Bertie Pilliner. I beg to oppose. Do let's show some respect for the privacy of the British hunter. Why should I go and smack them on their fat backs, and feel every one of their horrid legs twice in one morning? I shouldn't like a horse coming into my bedroom at all hours to smack me on the back. I should hate it!

      Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris. I love them – dear things! But still, it's so wet, and it would mean going up and changing our shoes too – perhaps Lady Rhoda —

[Lady Rhoda flatly declines to stir before lunch.

      Captain Thicknesse (resentfully). Only thought it was better than loafin' about, that's all. (To himself.) I do bar a woman who's afraid of a little mud. (He saunters up to Miss Spelwane and absently pulls the ear of a Japanese spaniel on her knee.) Poo' little fellow, then!

      Miss Spelwane. Poor little fellow? On my lap!

      Captain Thicknesse. Oh, it – ah – didn't occur to me that he was on your lap. He don't seem to mind that.

      Miss Spelwane. No? How forbearing of him! Would you mind not standing quite so much in my light? I can't see my work.

      Captain Thicknesse (to himself, retreating). That girl's always fishin' for compliments. I didn't rise that time, though. It's precious slow here. I've a good mind to say I must get back to Aldershot this afternoon.

[He wanders aimlessly about the room; Archie Bearpark looks out of window with undisguised boredom.

      Lady Rhoda. I say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than this, you may as well go back to your billiards again.

      Bertie Pilliner. Dear Lady Rhoda, how cruel of you! You'll have to let me stay. I'll be so good. Look here, I'll read aloud to you. I can– quite prettily. What shall it be? You don't care? No more do I. I'll take the first that comes. (He reaches for the nearest volume on a table close by.) How too delightful! Poetry – which I know you all adore.

[He turns over the leaves.

      Lady Rhoda. If you ask me, I simply loathe it.

      Bertie Pilliner. Ah, but then you never heard me read it, you know. Now, here is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as if it had been misbehaving itself. "Disenchantment" it's called.

[He reads.

      "My Love has sicklied unto Loath,

      And foul seems all that fair I fancied —

      The lily's sheen a leprous growth,

      The very buttercups are rancid!"

      Archie Bearpark. Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy!

      Bertie Pilliner. He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea of "Abasement."

[He reads.

      "With matted head a-dabble in the dust,

      And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust,

      I lie all loathly in my rags and rust —

      Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust."

      Now, do you know, I rather like that – it's so deliciously decadent!

      Lady Rhoda. I should call it utter rot, myself.

      Bertie Pilliner (blandly). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but not "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."

[He reads.

      "The lark soars up in the air;

      The toad sits tight in his hole;

      And I would I were certain which of the pair

      Were the truer type of my soul!"

      Archie Bearpark. I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.

      Miss Spelwane. If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs?

      Bertie