Mrs. Chatteris. Oh, and she was the original? Now, that is exciting! But I should hardly have recognised her—"lanky," you know, and "slanting green eyes." But I suppose you see everybody differently from other people? It's having so much imagination. I dare say I look green or something to you now—though really I'm not.
Spurrell (to himself). I don't understand more than about half she's saying. (Aloud.) Oh, I don't see anything particularly green about you.
Mrs. Chatteris (only partially pleased). I wonder if you meant that to be complimentary—no, you needn't explain. Now, tell me, is there any news about the Laureateship? Who's going to get it? Will it be Swinburne or Lewis Morris?
Spurrell (to himself). Never heard of the stakes or the horses either. (Aloud.) Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't been following their form—too many of these small events nowadays.
Mrs. Chatteris (to herself). It's quite amusing how jealous these poets are of one another! (Aloud.) Is it true they get a butt of sherry given them for it?
Spurrell. I've heard of winners getting a bottle or two of champagne in a bucket—not sherry. But a little stimulant won't hurt a crack when he comes in, provided it's not given him too soon; wait till he's got his wind and done blowing, you know.
Mrs. Chatteris. I'm taking that in. I know it's very witty and satirical, and I dare say I shall understand it in time.
Spurrell. Oh, it doesn't matter much if you don't. (To himself.) Pleasant kind of woman—but a perfect fool to talk to!
Mrs. Chatteris (to herself). I've always heard that clever writers are rather stupid when you meet them—it's quite true.
Captain Thicknesse (to himself). I should like her to see that I've got some imagination in me, though she does think me such an ass. (Aloud, to Lady Maisie.) Jolly old hall this is, with the banners, and the gallery, and that—makes you fancy some of those old mediæval Johnnies in armour—knights, you know—comin' clankin' in and turnin' us all out.