"Yet, even now, there are those who regard the poets as dreamers, and depreciate their value in comparison with that of the so-called 'men of action.' Dreamers! Yea, verily; but their visions uplift and strengthen us, and make our life more beautiful because more true. 'We are such stuff as dreams are made of.' We 'live in dreams;' and who shall say how much the great heroes of history and men of action in all ages have owed to the 'vision glorious' by which their poets stimulated them to noblest endeavour! Poetry is the highest possible expression of truth, and the true poet is the seer, the inspirer, the teacher of men. Let no one fear that the study of poetry will unfit men for practical life; it should rather make life more real and earnest, as it reveals the grand and the awful possibilities that lie before every soul of man."
Aldyth listened with joy to these words. Was the lecturer conscious of the soft liquid glow in the grey eyes fixed so earnestly on him? Did he see how absolutely beautiful Aldyth's countenance became as it caught and reflected his thought? Yes, for now and again his eyes met the full flash of glad intelligence that leaped into Aldyth's, and he spoke the better for knowing that he had one perfect listener.
The lecture over, the stir and bustle of departure arose in the hall. Everybody was discussing the lecture, and the general feeling seemed one of satisfaction. Guy Lorraine indeed yawned and stretched himself, and professed to be glad that the lecture was ended, thereby exciting the indignation of Hilda Bland, whose reproofs he seemed to enjoy.
"I am glad you were pleased," he said, "but for my part, I found it dull."
"Dull! I cannot believe you," said Hilda. "It was the greatest intellectual treat I have had for a long time."
"Well, I do not profess to be intellectual," replied Guy, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking as if he prided himself on the fact. "I suppose you are going to write the essay for Mr. Glynne."
"I shall try, certainly," said Hilda, "and I hope Aldyth will. I cannot answer for Kitty."
"I should think you might," said Kitty, overhearing her words. "I write an essay on the 'Character of Eighteenth Century Poetry'! I should pity Mr. Glynne if he had to read it. No, I am like you, Guy. I go in for what is practical. I am not a bookworm, like Hilda and Aldyth."
"Kitty, how can you talk like that after what you have heard to-night?" cried Hilda, in a tone of disgust.
But Kitty only laughed, and said that though she had enjoyed the lecture, she was not prepared to give her days and nights to the study of poetry for the sake of Mr. Glynne or any one else.