"Basil," cried the other, "you must have been in the country.
You must have been in the antipodes. You must have been in the
moon. Who is Wimpole? Who was Shakespeare?"

"As to who Shakespeare was," answered my friend placidly, "my views
go no further than thinking that he was not Bacon. More probably he
was Mary Queen of Scots. But as to who Wimpole is--" and his speech
also was cloven with a roar of laughter from within.

"Wimpole!" cried Lord Beaumont, in a sort of ecstasy. "Haven't
you heard of the great modern wit? My dear fellow, he has turned
conversation, I do not say into an art--for that, perhaps, it
always was but into a great art, like the statuary of Michael
Angelo--an art of masterpieces. His repartees, my good friend,
startle one like a man shot dead. They are final; they are--"

Again there came the hilarious roar from the room, and almost with
the very noise of it, a big, panting apoplectic old gentleman came
out of the inner house into the hall where we were standing.

"Now, my dear chap," began Lord Beaumont hastily.

"I tell you, Beaumont, I won't stand it," exploded the large old
gentleman. "I won't be made game of by a twopenny literary
adventurer like that. I won't be made a guy. I won't--"

"Come, come," said Beaumont feverishly. "Let me introduce you.
This is Mr Justice Grant--that is, Mr Grant. Basil, I am sure you
have heard of Sir Walter Cholmondeliegh."