.

Yes, any amount – here's one. (He reads.) "To My Lady."

      "Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,

      Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,

      Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,

      Then – kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"

      Miss Spelwane (interested). So that's his type. Does he mention whether she did kiss him?

      Bertie Pilliner. Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see … h'm, ha, yes; he does mention it … I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen.

[He reads.

      "Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,

      Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;

      Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,

      Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing."

      And so on, don't you know… Now I'll read you a regular rouser called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody!

[He reads.

      "Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for you, dear Archie!)

      Blink your blearèd eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!) Behold the Sun —

      Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence,

      Demos dawning, and the Darkness – done!"

[General hilarity, amidst which Lady Culverin enters.

      Lady Culverin. So glad you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear Vivien?

      Miss Spelwane. Bertie Pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear Lady Culverin —the most ridiculous poetry – made us all simply shriek. What's the name of it? (Taking the volume out of Bertie's hand.) Oh, Andromeda, and other Poems. By Clarion Blair.

      Lady Culverin (coldly). Bertie Pilliner can turn everything into ridicule, we all know; but probably you are not aware that these particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges. Indeed, my sister-in-law —

      All (in consternation). Lady Cantire! Is she the author? Oh, of course, if we'd had any idea —

      Lady Culverin. I've no reason to believe that Lady Cantire ever composed any poetry. I was only going to say that she was most interested in the author, and as she and my niece Maisie are coming to us this evening —

      Miss Spelwane. Dear Lady Culverin, the verses are quite, quite beautiful; it was only the way they were read.

      Lady Culverin. I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably be his neighbour to-night. I hope, Bertie, that you will remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that I can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand.

[She passes on.

      Bertie (plaintively, after Lady Culverin has left the room). May I trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you know, a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss Spelwane, how will you like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh?

      Miss Spelwane. Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining than a smooth one. And, if you've quite done with that volume, I should like to have a look at it.

[She retires with it to her room.

      Archie (to himself). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin'; I never caught a Bard in a booby-trap yet.

      Captain Thicknesse (to himself). She's coming – this very evenin'! And I was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot!

      Lady Rhoda. So Lady Cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our hind legs now! But Maisie's a dear thing. Do you know her, Captain Thicknesse?

      Captain Thicknesse. I – I used to meet Lady Maisie Mull pretty often at one time; don't know if she'll remember it, though.

      Lady Rhoda. She'll love meetin' this writin' man – she's so fearfully romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealized by a great poet – sort of – what's their names – Petrarch and Beatrice business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see whether it comes off – won't it?

      Captain Thicknesse (choking). I – ah – no affair of mine, really. (To himself.) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that. Suppose I shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well, there's always Aldershot!

[The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and satisfaction.

      PART III

      THE TWO ANDROMEDAS

      Opposite a Railway Bookstall at a London Terminus. Time —Saturday, 4.25 P.M.

      Drysdale (to his friend, Galfrid Undershell, whom he is "seeing off"). Twenty minutes to spare; time enough to lay in any quantity of light literature.

      Undershell (in a head voice). I fear the merely ephemeral does not appeal to me. But I should like to make a little experiment. (To the Bookstall Clerk.) A – do you happen to have a copy left of Clarion Blair's Andromeda?

      Clerk. Not in stock, sir. Never 'eard of the book, but dare say I could get it for you. Here's a Detective Story we're sellin' like 'ot cakes —The Man with the Missing Toe– very cleverly written story, sir.

      Undershell. I merely wished to know – that was all. (Turning with resigned disgust to Drysdale.) Just think of it, my dear fellow. At a bookstall like this one feels the pulse, as it were, of Contemporary Culture; and here my Andromeda, which no less an authority than the Daily Chronicle hailed as the uprising of a new and splendid era in English Song-making, a Poetic Renascence, my poor Andromeda, is trampled underfoot by – (choking) – Men with Missing Toes! What a satire on our so-called Progress!

      Drysdale. That a purblind public should prefer a Shilling Shocker for railway reading when for a modest half-guinea they might obtain a numbered volume of Coming Poetry on hand-made paper! It does seem incredible, – but they do. Well, if they can't read Andromeda on the journey, they can at least peruse a stinger on it in this week's Saturday. Seen it?

      Undershell. No. I don't vex my soul by reading criticisms on my work. I am no Keats. They may howl – but they will not kill me. By the way, the Speaker had a most enthusiastic notice last week.

      Drysdale. So you saw that then? But you're right not to mind the others. When a fellow's contrived to hang on to the Chariot of Fame, he can't wonder if a few rude and envious beggars call out "Whip behind!" eh? You don't want to get in yet? Suppose we take a turn up to the end of the platform.

[They do.

      James Spurrell, M.R.C.V.S., enters with his friend, Thomas Tanrake, of Hurdell and Tanrake, Job and Riding Masters, Mayfair.

      Spurrell. Yes, it's lucky for me old Spavin being laid up like this – gives me a regular little outing, do you see? going down to a swell place like this Wyvern Court, and being put up there for a day or two! I shouldn't wonder if they do you very well in the housekeeper's room. (To Clerk.) Give me a Pink Un and last week's Dog Fancier's Guide.

      Clerk. We've returned the unsold copies, sir. Could give you this week's; or there's The Rabbit and Poultry Breeder's Journal.

      Spurrell. Oh, rabbits be blowed! (To Tanrake.) I wanted you to see that notice they put in of Andromeda and me, with my photo and all; it said she was the best bull-bitch they'd seen for many a day, and fully deserved her first prize.

      Tanrake.