“No. I do not prefer Kipling to the author of ‘Childe Harold.’”
“Then you are lost—irretrievably lost!” said the Professor. “In England, at any rate. In England, if you are a true lover of literature, you must sneer at Byron because it’s academic to do so—Oxford and Cambridge have taken to decrying genius and worshipping mediocrity. Byron is the only English poet known and honoured in other countries than England—your modern verse writers are not understood in France, Italy or Russia. Half a dozen of Byron’s stanzas would set up all the British latter-day rhymers with ideas,—only, of course, they would never admit it. I’m glad I’ve met an Englishwoman who has sense enough to appreciate Byron.”
“Thank you!” said Diana in a small, meek voice. “You are most kind!”
Here Farnese rushed in again upon his argument.
“That glass dome——”
Diana smothered a tiny yawn.
“Oh, that’s an astronomical place!” she said, indifferently. “You know the kind of thing! Telescopes, globes, mathematical instruments—all those sort of objects.”
The Marchese looked surprised,—then incredulous.
“An astronomical place?” he repeated. “Are you sure? Have you seen it?”
“Why, yes, of course!” and she laughed. “Haven’t you?”