The bard went on,
‘A beautiful game, most delightful
They play—’
‘Ping-pong?’ murmured Merton.
‘Hush!’ said Lady Bude.
Miss Macrae turned to the poet.
‘They play, sitting at the luxurious wine,
Men and gentle women under a bush,
Without sin, without crime.’
‘They are playing still,’ Blake added. ‘Unbeheld, undisturbed! I verily believe there is no Gael even now who would not in his heart of hearts let drift by him the Elysiums of Virgil, Dante, and Milton, to grasp at the Moy Mell, the Apple Isle, of the unknown Irish pagan! And then to play sitting at the luxurious wine,
‘Men and gentle women under a bush!’
‘It really cannot have been ping-pong that they played at, sitting. Bridge, more likely,’ said Merton. ‘And “good wine needs no bush!”’
The bard moved away, accompanied by his young hostess, who resented Merton’s cynicism