"With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust,
I lie all loathly in my rags and rust—
Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust."
Now, do you know, I rather like that—it's so deliciously decadent!
Lady Rhoda. I should call it utter rot, myself.
Bertie Pilliner (blandly). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but not "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."
[He reads.
"The lark soars up in the air;
The toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of the pair
Were the truer type of my soul!"
Archie Bearpark. I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.
Miss Spelwane. If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs?
Bertie Pilliner. I'll look. Yes, any amount—here's one. (He reads.) "To My Lady."
"Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,
Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"