‘You don’t mean to say,’ I replied, ‘Richard le Gallienne?’
‘Hush! hush! he was rescued.’
‘Stephen Phillips?’ I asked, anxiously.
‘Well, he couldn’t swim, of course, but he floated; you see he had the Sidney Colvin lifebelt on, and that is always a great assistance.’
‘Not,’ I almost shrieked, ‘my favourite poet, the author of “Lord ’a Muzzy don’t you fret. Missed we De Wet. Missed we De Wet”?’
Theodormon became very grave. ‘We do not know any of their names,’ he said. ‘I will show you, presently, the Morgue. Perhaps you will be able to identify some of your friends. The Coroner has refused to open an inquest until Mr. John Lane can attend to give his evidence.’
I saw the Poet Laureate trying very hard to swim on his back. Another poet was sitting down on the marble floor so that the water might at least come up to his neck. Gazing
disconsolately into the pellucid shallows I saw the revered and much-loved figures of Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Austin Dobson, and Mr. Edmund Gosse. ‘Going for a dip?’ said Theodormon. ‘Thanks, we don’t care about paddling,’ Mr. Lang retorted.
‘I hope it is not always so shallow,’ I said to my guide.
‘Oh, no; we have a new water-supply, but as the spring is in the nature of a public place, we won’t turn on the fresh water until people have learnt to appreciate what is good. That handsome little marble structure which you see at the end of the garden is really the new Castalian Spring. At all events, that is where all the miracles take place. The old bath is terribly out of repair, in spite of plumbing.’