"I beg your pardon," said he. "But how can they?"
"Those I've seen have had feet enough for a centipede," said I, as dryly as I could, considering that I was still dripping with fog.
The laureate scratched his head solemnly.
"Quite so," he said, at length. "But come, let us hasten."
We hastened upward, and five minutes later we were in the sanctum. It was a charming room. A complete set of the British Poets stood ranged in chronological sequence on the table. A copy of Hood's Rhymster, well thumbed, lay open on the sofa, and a volume of popular quotations lay on the floor beside the poet's easy-chair.
A full-length portrait of her Majesty the Queen, seven inches high and sixteen wide, hung over the fireplace, and beneath it stood a charming bust of the late Lord Tennyson with the face turned towards the wall.
"'A BEAUTIFUL WORKSHOP,' SAID I"
"A beautiful workshop," said I. "Surely one sees now the sources of your inspiration."