s glasses, and reads
from a paper on the table in front of him--"is Mr. Sydney Worple, of
whom you--er--have--er--doubtless all heard. At any rate you will hear
him now."

Mr. Sydney Worple, tall and thin, wearing the sort of tie which makes you
think you must have seen him before, steps forward amidst applause. He
falls back into the throne as if deep in thought, and passes a hand
across his hair.

Mr. Worple (_very suddenly_) "Dawn at Surbiton."

"Where?" says a frightened voice at the back.

"H'sh!" says Lady Poldoodle in a whisper. "Surbiton."

"Surbiton" is passed round the back seats. Not that it is going to matter
in the least.

Mr. Worple repeats the title, and then recites in an intense voice these
lines:

Out of the nethermost bonds of night,
Out of the gloom where the bats' wings brush me,
Free from the crepitous doubts which crush me,
Forth I fare to the cool sunlight;

Forth to a world where the wind sweeps clean,
Where the smooth-limbed ash to the blue stands bare,
And the gossamer spreads her opalled ware--
And Jones is catching the 8.15.

After several more verses like this he bows and retires. Lady Poldoodle,
still mechanically clapping, says to her neighbour:

"How beautiful! Dawn at Surbiton! Such a beautiful idea, I think."

"Wasn't it sublime?" answers the neighbour. "The wonderful contrast
between the great pageant of nature and poor Mr. Jones, catching--always
catching--the 8.15."

But Lord Poldoodle is rising again. "Our next poet," he says,
"is Miss Miranda Herrick, whose work is so distinguished for
its--er--its--er--distinction."

Miss Herrick, dressed in pale green and wearing pincenez, flutters in
girlishly. She gives a nervous little giggle, pushes out her foot,
withdraws it and begins:

When I take my bath in the morning--

The audience wakes up with a start. "When you take your _what_!" says
Lord Poldoodle.

Miss Herrick begins again, starting this time with the title.

LIFE

When I take my bath in the morning,
When I strip for the cool delight,
And the housemaid brings
Me towels and things,
Do I reck of the coming night?

A materially-minded man whispers to his neighbour that _he_ always
wonders what's for breakfast. "H'sh!" she says, for there is another
verse to come.

When my hair comes down in the evening,
And my tired clothes swoon to the ground,
Do I bother my head,
As I leap in bed,
Of the truth which the dawn brings round?

In