"Where?" says a frightened voice at the back.
"H'sh!" says Lady Poldoodle in a whisper. "Surbiton."
"Surbiton" is passed round the back seats. Not that it is going to matter in the least.
Mr. Worple repeats the title, and then recites in an intense voice these lines:
Out of the nethermost bonds of night,
Out of the gloom where the bats' wings brush me,
Free from the crepitous doubts which crush me,
Forth I fare to the cool sunlight;
Forth to a world where the wind sweeps clean,
Where the smooth-limbed ash to the blue stands bare,
And the gossamer spreads her opalled ware—
And Jones is catching the 8.15.
After several more verses like this he bows and retires. Lady Poldoodle, still mechanically clapping, says to her neighbour:
"How beautiful! Dawn at Surbiton! Such a beautiful idea, I think."
"Wasn't it sublime?" answers the neighbour. "The wonderful contrast between the great pageant of nature and poor Mr. Jones, catching—always catching—the 8.15."
But Lord Poldoodle is rising again. "Our next poet," he says, "is Miss Miranda Herrick, whose work is so distinguished for its—er—its—er—distinction."