aringham on Monday in order to deliver a lecture on 'Poetry
in its Relation to Life,' before the Faringham Literary Association. It
is one of the most famous Associations in the world and has a large
lecture-hall capable of seating one thousand people comfortably."

"But why," she said, "did they ask _you_ to lecture?"

"They must," I said, "have heard of me somewhere and guessed that I had
wonderful latent capacities as a lecturer. Some men have, you know."

"Well," she said, "let's hope you're one of that sort, and that you'll
bring all your capacities out on Monday. Aren't you nervous?"

"No," I said, "not exactly nervous; but I shall be glad when it's well
over."

"So shall I," she said. "The ink will be gradually getting better now,
and there won't be so many troubles about the A.B.C. being mislaid."

"No book," I said, "was ever so much mislaid as that. I put it down on
the sofa two minutes ago and it has now vanished completely."

"It has flown to the window-seat," she said.

"Ah," I said, "and if we give it two minutes more it will fly into the
dining-room."

"Never mind," she said; "there shall be A.B.C.'s in every room till you
depart for Faringham. That's poetry."

"But it has no relation to life," I said. "It is not sincere, as all
true poetry must be."

"'At this point,'" she said in a quoting voice, "'the lecturer was much
affected, and his audience showed their sympathy with him by loud
cheers.' Will there be much of that sort of thing?"

"There will be a good deal of it," I said with dignity. "The lecture is
to last for an hour exactly."

"A whole hour?" she said. "Isn't that taking a mean advantage of the
Faringham people?"

"They," I said, "can go out if they like, but I must go on. Francesca,
may I read the lecture to you, so as to see if I've got it the right
length?"

"So that's what you've been driving at," she said. "Well, fire away--no,
stop till I've fetched the children in. You'll have a better audience
with them."

"Need those innocent ones suffer?" I said.

"They are young," she said, "and must learn to endure."

The consequence was that all the four children, from Muriel aged
sixteen, to Frederick aged eight, were fetched in and told they were
going to have a treat such as few children had ever had; that they were
going to hear a lecture on "Poetry in its Relation to Life"; that they
must cheer loudly every now and then, but not interrupt otherwise, and
that there woul