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, Pillener. _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 Pilliner._ I'll look. 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._