The tone of her voice, slightly contemptuous, was not lost on
Adderley. He fancied he was on dangerous ground.
"I have never met Lord Roxmouth myself"—he said—"But I have heard
Longford speak of him. Longford however rather 'makes' for society.
I do not. Longford is quite at home with dukes and duchesses—-"
"Or professes to be—" put in Maryllia, with a slight smile.
"Or professes to be,—I accept the correction!" agreed Adderley.
"Personally, I know nothing of him,"—said Maryllia—"I have never seen him at any of the functions in London, and I should imagine him to be a man who rather over-estimated himself. So many literary men do. That is why most of them are such terrible social bores."
"To the crime of being a literary man I plead not guilty!" and
Julian folded his hands in a kind of mock-solemn appeal—"Moreover,
I swear never to become one!"
"Good boy!" smiled Cicely—"Be a modern Pan, and run away from all the literary cliques, kicking up the dust behind you in their faces as you go! Roam the woods in solitude and sing!
"'The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tinolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings!'"
"Ah, Shelley!" cried Adderley—"Shelley the divine! And how divinely you utter his lines! Do you know the last verse of that poem:—'I sang of the dancing stars'?"
Cicely raised her hand, commanding attention, and went on: