Lady Rhoda (crossing her feet on the fender). Well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', can we?
"WELL, WE CAN'T COMPLAIN OF HAVIN' HAD A DULL EVENIN', CAN WE?"
Lady Maisie (taking a hand-screen from the mantelshelf). Not altogether. Has—anything fresh happened since I left?
Lady Rhoda. Nothing particular. Archie apologised to this new man in the billiard-room. For the booby trap. We all told him he'd got to. And Mr. Carrion Bear, or Blundershell, or whatever he calls himself—you know—was so awf'lly gracious and condescendin' that I really thought poor dear old Archie would have wound up his apology by punchin' his head for him. Strikes me, Maisie, that mop-headed minstrel boy is a decided change for the worse. Doesn't it you?
Lady Maisie (toying with the screen). How do you mean, Rhoda?
Lady Rhoda. I meantersay I call Mr. Spurrell—— Well, he's real, anyway—he's a man, don't you know. As for the other, so feeble of him missin' his train like he did, and turnin' up too late for everything! Now, wasn't it?
Lady Maisie. Poets are dreamy and unpractical and unpunctual—it's their nature.
Lady Rhoda. Then they should stay at home. Just see what a hopeless muddle he's got us all into! I declare I feel as if anybody might turn into somebody else on the smallest provocation after this. I know poor Vivien Spelwane will be worryin' her pillows like rats most of the night, and I rather fancy it will be a close time for poets with your dear mother, Maisie, for some time to come. All this silly little man's fault!
Lady Maisie. No, Rhoda. Not his—ours. Mine and mamma's. We ought to have felt from the first that there must be some mistake, that poor Mr. Spurrell couldn't possibly be a poet! I don't know, though—people generally are unlike what you'd expect from their books. I believe they do it on purpose! Not that that applies to Mr. Blair; he is one's idea of what a poet should be. If he hadn't arrived when he did, I don't think I could ever have borne to read another line of poetry as long as I lived!