admired the Duke's daughter, there were moments when Lord Mallow felt
his eyelids drooping, and heard a buzzing, as of summer insects, in his
ears.

There was no point of interest in all this rhythmical meandering
whereon the hapless young nobleman could fix his attention. Another
minute and his sceptic soul would be wandering at ease in the flowery
fields of sleep. He pulled himself together with an effort, just as the
eggshell cup and saucer were slipping from his relaxing grasp. He asked
the Duchess for another cup of that delicious tea. He gazed resolutely
at the fair-faced maiden, whose rosy lips moved graciously, discoursing
shallowest platitudes clothed in erudite polysyllables, and then at the
first pause--when Lady Mabel laid down her velvet-bound volume, and
looked timidly upward for his opinion--Lord Mallow poured forth a
torrent of eloquence, such as he always had in stock, and praised "The
Sceptic Soul" as no poem and no poet had ever been praised before, save
by Hibernian critic.

The richness, the melody, the depth, colour, brilliance, tone, variety,
far-reaching thought, &c., &c., &c.

He was so grateful to Providence for having escaped falling asleep that
he could have gone on for ever in this strain. But if anyone had asked
Lord Mallow what "The Tragedy of a Sceptic Soul" was about, Lord Mallow
would have been spun.

When a strong-minded woman is weak upon one particular point she is apt
to be very weak. Lady Mabel's weakness was to fancy herself a second
Browning. She had never yet enjoyed the bliss of having her own idea of
herself confirmed by independent evidence. Her soul thrilled as Lord
Mallow poured forth his praises; talking of "The Book and the Ring,"
and "Paracelsus," and a great deal more, of which he knew very little,
and seeing in the expression of Lady Mabel's eyes and mouth that he was
saying exactly the right thing, and could hardly say too much.

They were _tete-a-tete_ by this time, for the Duchess was sleeping
frankly, her crewel-work drooping from the hands that lay idle in her
lap; her second cup of tea on the table beside her, half-finished.

"I don't know how it is," she was wont to say apologetically, after
these placid slumbers. "There is something in Mabel's voice that always
sends me to sleep. Her tones are so musical."

"And do you really advise me to publish?" asked Lady Mabel, fluttered
and happy.

"It would be a sin to keep such verses hidden from the world."