Capt. Thick. But what was it you were goin' to explain to me? You said there was somethin'——
Lady Maisie (to herself). It's no use; I'd sooner die than tell him about that letter now! (Aloud.) I—I only wished you to understand that, whatever I think about poetry—I detest poets!
Lady Cant. Yes, as you say, Bishop, a truly Augustan mode of recreation. Still, Mr. Spurrell doesn't seem to have come in yet, so I shall have time to hear anything you have to say in defence of your opposition to Parish Councils.
[The Bishop resigns himself to the inevitable.
Archie (in Pilliner's ear). Ink and flour—couldn't possibly miss him; the bard's got a matted head this time, and no mistake.
"Ink and flour—couldn't possibly miss him."
Pill. Beastly bad form, I call it—with a fellow you don't know. You'll get yourself into trouble some day. And you couldn't even manage your ridiculous booby-trap, for here the beggar comes, as if nothing had happened.
Archie (disconcerted). Confound him! The best booby-trap I ever made!
The Bishop. My dear Lady Cantire, here is our youthful poet, at the eleventh hour. (To himself.) "Sic me servavit Apollo!"