"

"I thought we were talking about what was pretty to look at."

"So we were. I'm as fond of pretty things as anybody. Do you know
Reginald Dobbes?"

"No, I don't. Is he pretty?"

"He used to be so angry with Silverbridge, because Silverbridge would
say Crummie-Toddie was ugly."

"Was Crummie-Toddie ugly?"

"Just a plain house on a moor."

"That sounds ugly."

"I suppose your family like pretty things?"

"I hope so."

"I do, I know." Lord Popplecourt endeavoured to look as though he
intended her to understand that she was the pretty thing which he
most particularly liked. She partly conceived his meaning, and was
disgusted accordingly. On the other side of her sat Mr. Boncassen, to
whom she had been introduced in the drawing-room,--and who had said a
few words to her about some Norwegian poet. She turned round to him,
and asked him some questions about the Skald, and so, getting into
conversation with him, managed to turn her shoulder to her suitor. On
the other side of him sat Lady Rosina de Courcy, to whom, as being
an old woman and an old maid, he felt very little inclined to be
courteous. She said a word, asking him whether he did not think the
weather was treacherous. He answered her very curtly, and sat bolt
upright, looking forward on the table, and taking his dinner as it
came to him. He had been put there in order that Lady Mary Palliser
might talk to him, and he regarded interference on the part of
that old American as being ungentlemanlike. But the old American
disregarded him, and went on with his quotations from the
Scandinavian bard.

But Mr. Boncassen sat next to Lady Cantrip, and when at last he was
called upon to give his ear to the Countess, Lady Mary was again
vacant for Popplecourt's attentions.

"Are you very fond of poetry?" he asked.

"Very fond."

"So am I. Which do you like best, Tennyson or Shakespeare?"

"They are very unlike."

"Yes;--they are unlike. Or Moore's Melodies? I am very fond of 'When
in death I shall calm recline.' I think this equal to anything.
Reginald Dobbes would have it that poetry is all bosh."

"Then I think that Mr. Reginald Dobbes must be all bosh himself."

"There was a man there named Tregear who had brought some books."
Then there was a pause. Lady Mary had not a word to say. "Dobbes used
to declare that he was always pretending to read poetry."

"Mr. Tregear never pretends anything."

"Do you know him?" asked the rival.

"He is my broth