"Ah," I said, "and if we give it two minutes more it will fly into the dining-room."
"Never mind," she said; "there shall be A.B.C.'s in every room till you depart for Faringham. That's poetry."
"But it has no relation to life," I said. "It is not sincere, as all true poetry must be."
"'At this point,'" she said in a quoting voice, "'the lecturer was much affected, and his audience showed their sympathy with him by loud cheers.' Will there be much of that sort of thing?"
"There will be a good deal of it," I said with dignity. "The lecture is to last for an hour exactly."
"A whole hour?" she said. "Isn't that taking a mean advantage of the Faringham people?"
"They," I said, "can go out if they like, but I must go on. Francesca, may I read the lecture to you, so as to see if I've got it the right length?"
"So that's what you've been driving at," she said. "Well, fire away—no, stop till I've fetched the children in. You'll have a better audience with them."
"Need those innocent ones suffer?" I said.
"They are young," she said, "and must learn to endure."