they had to
make not to seem too happy in the presence of "the quality." The curate
then took his leave, as he was obliged to visit a sick parishioner, and,
as the sun was evidently on the point of beginning to imitate Turner's
later pictures, Mrs. Windsor directed that the children should be
assembled under the great cedar tree on the lawn, to hear Esme
Amarinth's promised address.

The picture that the garden presented at this moment was quite a pretty
one. The sun, as I have said, was declining towards the West in a manner
strongly suggestive of a scene at the Lyceum Theatre after many
rehearsals with a competent lime-light man. The monstrous yew trees cast
gross misshapen shadows across the smooth, velvet lawns. The air was
heavy with the scents of flowers. Across the gleaming yellow of the sky
a black riband of homeward passing rooks streamed slowly towards the
trees they loved. Under the spreading branches of the cedar stood the
big motley group of flushed and receptive children, flanked by their
more staid teachers, and faced by Bung, who sat upon his tail before
them, and panted serenely, with his tongue hanging out sideways nearly
to the ground. Dotted about upon creaking garden chairs were Mrs.
Windsor, Madame Valtesi, Lady Locke, and Lord Reggie, while Tommy in a
loose white sailor suit scampered about from one place to another,
simmering in perfect enjoyment. And the central figure of all was Esme
Amarinth, who stood leaning upon an ebony stick with a silver knob,
surveying his audience with the peculiar smile of humourous
self-satisfaction that was so characteristic of his large-featured face.

Just before he began his address Mrs. Windsor fluttered up to him, and
whispered in his ear--

"Don't make any classical allusions, will you, Esme? I promised Mr.
Smith there should be nothing of that kind. He thinks classical
allusions corrupting. Of course he's wrong--good people always are--but
perhaps we ought to humour him, as he is the curate, you know."

Esme assented with a graceful bend of his crimpled head, and in a clear
and deliberate voice began to speak.

"The art of folly," he said, "that is to say, the art of being
consciously foolish beautifully, has been practised to some extent in
all ages, and among all peoples, from the pale, clear dawn of creation,
when, as we are told, the man Adam, in glorious nudity, walked perfectly
among the perfect glades of Eden, down to the golden noontide of this