works can be obtained on the way out. There is, however, no
compulsion in the matter, and, if you take my advice--well, well,
let us get on. Our first poet"--here he puts on his 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,