'Very true,' answered Wogan.
Scrope mounted into the chaise. Wogan followed upon his heels. They sat down side by side, and Scrope pulled out the verses from his pocket. He read the dedication once more:
'Strephon to Smilinda running barefoot over the grass in a gale of wind.'
'Let me point out,' said he, 'that you have made the lady run barefoot at the very time when she would be most certain to put on her shoes and stockings. And that error vitiates the whole poem. For the wind is severe, you will notice. So when she reprimands the storm, she should really reprimand herself for her inconceivable folly.'
'But Smilinda has no shoes and stockings at all in the poem,' replied Wogan triumphantly.
'That hardly betters the matter,' returned Scrope. 'For in that case her feet might be bare but they would certainly not be snowy.'
He stooped down as he spoke and drew from under the seat a bottle of wine, which he opened.
'This,' he said, 'may help us to consider the poem in a more charitable light.'
He gave Wogan the bottle to hold, and stooping once more fetched out a couple of glasses. Then he held one in each hand.
'Now will you fill them?' he said. Wogan poured out the wine and while pouring it: