Spurrell. Was I? I don't exactly see how I could have been, considering I never made a rhyme in my life!
Sir Rupert. There, there, Rohesia, it was your mistake; but as we are indebted to it for the pleasure of making Mr. Spurrell's acquaintance——
Lady Cantire. I am not in the habit of making mistakes, Rupert. I don't know what you and Albinia and Maisie may know that I am in ignorance of, but, since you seem to have been aware from the first that Mr. Spurrell was not the poet you had invited here to meet me, will you kindly explain what has become of the real author?
Sir Rupert. My dear Rohesia, I don't know and I don't care!
Lady Cantire. There you are wrong, Rupert, because it's obvious that if he is not Mr. Spurrell, the real poet's absence has to be accounted for in some way.
Spurrell. By Jove, I believe I can put you on the track. I shouldn't wonder if he's the party these dress clothes of mine belong to! I dare say you may have noticed they don't look as if they were made for me?
Lady Cantire (closing her eyes). Pray let us avoid any sartorial questions! We are waiting to hear about this person.
Spurrell. Well, I found I'd got on his things by mistake, and I went up as soon as I could after dessert to my room to take 'em off, and there he was, with a waste-paper basket on his head——
Lady Cantire. A waste-paper basket on his head! And pray what should he have that for?
Spurrell. I'm no wiser than your ladyship there. All I know is he said he wouldn't take it off till he saw me. And I never saw any one in such a mess with ink and flour as he was!