"My dear Roderick, do you suppose that in an age whose highest characteristic is the rapid advance of scientific knowledge, there can be anybody so benighted as not to understand the terminology of science?"
"Perhaps not, dear. I fear I am very much behind the times. I have lived too much in Hampshire. I frankly confess that some expressions in your—er—Tragedy of—er—Soulless Scept—Sceptic Soul—were Greek to me."
"Poor dear Roderick, I should hardly take you as the highest example of the Zeitgeist; but I won't allow you to call yourself stupid. I'm glad you like the swing of the verse. Did it remind you of any contemporary poet?"
"Well, yes, I think it dimly suggested Browning."
"I am glad of that. I would not for worlds be an imitator; but Browning is my idol among poets."
"Some of his minor pieces are awfully jolly," said the incorrigible Rorie. "That little poem called 'Youth and Art,' for instance. And 'James Lee's Wife' is rather nice, if one could quite get at what it means. But I suppose that is too much to expect from any great poet?"
"There are deeper meanings beneath the surface—meanings which require study," replied Mabel condescendingly. "Those are the religion of poetry——"
"No doubt," assented Rorie hastily; "but frankly, my dear Mabel, if you want your book to be popular——"
"I don't want my book to be popular. Browning is not popular. If I had wanted to be popular, I should have worked on a lower level. I would even have stooped to write a novel."
"Well then I will say, if you want your poem to be understood by the average intellect, I really would sink the scientific terminology, and throw overboard a good deal of the metaphysics. Byron has not a scientific or technical phrase in all his poems."