Is it because her stays are too tight?
Or because she wants to sneeze and has lost her pocket handkerchief?
Or only because her second son
(The engineer)
Is dying of cancer.
I cannot be certain.
Yet I sit here and ask myself
Wonderingly
Why is the fat woman's face so red?

It is generally recognized that, in Mr. Mott, we have a real poet. There
are loud cries of "Encore!" Mr. Mott shakes his head.

"I have written no more," he says in a deep voice. "I have given you the
result of three years' work. Perhaps--in another three years--" He shrugs
his shoulders and walks gloomingly out.

"Such a sweet idea," says Lady Poldoodle. "I sit here and ask
myself--wonderingly! How true! How very true!"

"I couldn't quite follow it, dear," says her neighbour frankly. "Did he
marry her after all?"

Lord Poldoodle, looking slightly more cheerful, gets once more on to his
legs.

"You will all be very glad to hear--ah--you will all be sorry to hear
that we have only one more poet on our list this afternoon. Mr. Cecil
Willow, the well-known--er--poet."