"YOU MIGHT BEGIN WITH THIS—SUCH A DEAR LITTLE PIECE."
Spurrell (as he takes the book). I'll do the best I can! (He looks at the page in dismay.) Why, look here, it's poetry! I didn't bargain for that. Poetry's altogether out of my line!
[Miss Spelwane opens her eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he begins to read in a perfunctory monotone, with deepening bewilderment and disgust—
"THE SICK KNIGHT.
Reach me the helmet from yonder rack,
Mistress o' mine! with its plume of white:
Now help me upon my destrier's back,
Mistress o' mine! though he swerve in fright.
And guide my foot to the stirrup-ledge,
Mistress o' mine! it eludes me still.
Then fill me a cup as a farewell pledge,
Mistress o' mine! for the night air's chill!
Haste! with the buckler and pennon'd lance,
Mistress o' mine! or ever I feel
My war-horse plunge in impatient prance,
Mistress o' mine! at the prick of heel.
Pay scant heed to my pallid hue,
Mistress o' mine! for the wan moon's sheen
Doth blazon the gules o' my cheek with blue,
Mistress o' mine! or glamour it green.
One last long kiss, ere I seek the fray ...
Mistress o' mine! though I quit my sell,
I would meet the foe i' the mad mêlée.
Mistress o' mine! an' I were but well!"
(After the murmur of conventional appreciation has died away.) Well, of course, I don't set up for a judge of such things myself, but I must say, if I was asked my opinion—of all the downright tommy-rot I ever—— (The company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page.) I say, though, I do call this rather rum! Who the dickens is Clarion Blair? Because I never heard of him—and yet it seems he's been writing poetry on my bull-dog!
Miss Spelwane (faintly). Writing poetry—about your bull-dog!
Spurrell. Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be—Andromeda!
[Tableau.