Lady Culv. (to herself). Oh, my goodness, what will Rupert say? (Aloud.) Why, of course, Mr. Spurrell; how can you ask?
Spurr. (feebly). I—I didn't know, that was all. (To Footman). Here you are, then. (To himself.) Put out my things? he'll find nothing to put out except a nightgown, sponge bag, and a couple of brushes! If I'd only known I should be let in for this, I'd have brought dress-clothes. But how could I? I—I wonder if it would be any good telling 'em quietly how it is. I shouldn't like 'em to think I hadn't got any. (He looks at Lady Cantire and her sister-in-law, who are talking in an undertone.) No, perhaps I'd better let it alone. I—I can allude to it in a joky sort of way when I come down!
TO MY BEEF TEA.
(By Our Dyspeptic Poet.)
When the doctor's stern decree
Rings the knell of libertee,
And dismisses from my sight
All the dishes that delight;
When my temperature is high—
When to pastry and to pie
Duty bids me say farewell,
Then I hail thy fragrant smell!
When the doctor shakes his head,
Banning wine or white or red,
And at all my well-loved joints
Disapproving finger points;
When my poultry too he stops,
Then, reduced to taking "slops,"
I, for solace and relief,
Fly to thee, O Tea of Beef!
But—if simple truth I tell—
I can brook thee none too well;
Thy delights, O Bovine Tea,
Have no special charm for me!
Though thou comest piping hot,
Oh, believe I love thee not!
Weary of thy gentle reign—
Give me oysters and champagne!
"CLUBS! CLUBS!"
["Fry of Wadham," illustrious all-round athlete of Oxford, holds that Golf is no better than "glorified Croquet.">[
Oh, Fry of Wadham, you've opened your mouth,
And "put your foot in it!" Here in the South,
Talked to death by wild golfers, we're likely to cry
Hooray, to see Link-lovers roasted by Fry.
Golf-glorification's a terrible tax on
The muscular Cricketing, Footballing Saxon,
To whom the game seems just a little bit pokey.
But Fry of Wadham, Sir, "glorified Croquet"!
Champion of Champions, you're going to catch it!
Each man loves his sport, swears no other can match it
Chacun à son goût! And he's rather to blame
Who's prompt to make game of another man's Game!