Now, do you know, I rather like that—it's so very decadent!
Lady Rhoda. I should call it utter rot, myself.
Bertie (blandly). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but not "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."
[He reads.
"The lark soars up in the air; The
toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of
the pair Were the truer type of my soul!"
Archie. I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.
Miss Spelw. If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs?