Sir Rup. Don't see what any fellow wants with an alias. What is his real name?
Lady Culv. Well, I know it was something ending in "ell," but I mislaid his letter. Still, Clarion Blair is the name he writes under; he's a poet, Rupert, and quite celebrated, so I'm told.
Sir Rup. (uneasily). A poet! What on earth possessed you to ask a literary fellow down here? Poetry isn't much in our way; and a poet will be, confoundedly!
"What on earth possessed you to ask a literary fellow down here?"
Lady Culv. I really couldn't help it, Rupert. Rohesia insisted on my having him to meet her. She likes meeting clever and interesting people. And this Mr. Blair, it seems, has just written a volume of verses which are finer than anything that's been done since—well, for ages!
Sir Rup. What sort of verses?
Lady Culv. Well, they're charmingly bound. I've got the book in the house, somewhere. Rohesia told me to send for it; but I haven't had time to read it yet.
Sir Rup. Shouldn't be surprised if Rohesia hadn't, either.
Lady Culv. At all events, she's heard it talked about. The young man's verses have made quite a sensation; they're so dreadfully clever, and revolutionary, and morbid and pessimistic, and all that, so she made me promise to ask him down here to meet her!