oyalties. "The beggars," he said, "only gave me eight hundred
pounds on my last volume. I couldn't stand _that_, you know; for a
modern bard, moving with the age, can only sing when duly wound up;
so I've run across to investigate. Put a penny in the slot, don't
you see, and the poet will pipe for you."

"Exactly like myself," Charles said, finding a point in common.
"_I'm_ interested in mines; and I, too, have come over to look
after my royalties."

The poet placed his eyeglass in his eye once more, and surveyed
Charles deliberately from head to foot. "Oh," he murmured slowly. He
said not a word more; but somehow, everybody felt that Charles was
demolished. I saw that Wrengold, when we went in to dinner, hastily
altered the cards that marked their places. He had evidently put
Charles at first to sit next the poet; he varied that arrangement
now, setting Algernon Coleyard between a railway king and a magazine
editor. I have seldom seen my respected brother-in-law so completely
silenced.

The poet's conduct during dinner was most peculiar. He kept quoting
poetry at inopportune moments.

"Roast lamb or boiled turkey, sir?" said the footman.

"Mary had a little lamb," said the poet. "I shall imitate Mary."

Charles and the Senator thought the remark undignified.

After dinner, however, under the mellowing influence of some
excellent Roederer, Charles began to expand again, and grew lively
and anecdotal. The poet had made us all laugh not a little with
various capital stories of London literary society--at least two of
them, I think, new ones; and Charles was moved by generous emulation
to contribute his own share to the amusement of the company. He was
in excellent cue. He is not often brilliant; but when he chooses, he
has a certain dry vein of caustic humour which is decidedly funny,
though not perhaps strictly without being vulgar. On this particular
night, then, warmed with the admirable Wrengold champagne--the
best made in America--he launched out into a full and embroidered
description of the various ways in which Colonel Clay had deceived
him. I will not say that he narrated them in full with the same
frankness and accuracy that I have shown in these pages; he
suppressed not a few of the most amusing details--on no other
ground, apparently, than because they happened to tell against
himself; and he enlarged a good deal on the surprising cleverness
with which several times he had nearly secured his man; but