"Watchmen?" repeated Sir Benjamin doubtfully. "Y—es, its watchmen, its woes, its——"
"Smells!" yawned Lord Alvaston.
"Smells?" gasped Sir Benjamin, "'Od requite me sir—smells, sir!"
"What smells?" enquired Lady Belinda, pausing abruptly on the threshold with hands clasped. "Not fire? O Gemini, I shall swoon! Sir Benjamin, your arm pray, positively I languish at the bare idea—fire?"
"No, no, madam," exclaimed Sir Benjamin, supporting her to a chair, "here is no fire save the flames engendered of love, madam, for as I was saying—
"Stay, dear Sir Ben," laughed Betty, "first tell me, have you all writ me your odes?"
"'Od support me, yes faith, madam, we have writ you, rhymed you and versified you to a man, and it hath been agreed betwixt us, one and all, that hem! before these same odes, sonnets, triolets, vilanelles, rondeaus, chants-royal, ballades and the like be humbly submitted to you, we their authors shall hem! Shall——"
"Hold, my Benjamin, hold!" exclaimed Lord Alvaston. "Too much beating 'bout bush, Ben my boy. Dear Lady Bet, what poor Ben's been trying t' say, wants t' say, but don't know how t' say 's simply this—that having wrote odes 'n' things, we're minded t' read 'em t' each other and pass judgment on 'em, 'n' whoever has—
"Clapped the firmest saddle on Pegasus," continued the Marquis, "will be given——"
"He means whoso hath writ the best, Betty," Mr. Marchdale explained with youthful gravity.