"Says the beer's falling off, sir. It _did_, once upon a time, taste
of the barrel, but now he'll be hanged if it tastes of anything at
all. It ought--"

"Don't be a fool, sir! I mean in that poem of his from 'Ivy Leaves:
or, Tendrils from Troy.'"

"Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. Let me see--"

Before he could recall it, Sophia finished the quotation, timidly.
"I think, papa, I can remember it:--"

'And thou,
Quaint hostel! 'neath whose mould'ring gable ends
In amber draught I slake my noonday thirst . . .'

"Something like that, I think, papa."

"Ah, to be sure: 'mould'ring gable ends,' a most accurate
description. It used to belong to--" and the Admiral plunged again
into a flood of conversation.

"You must bring this Mr. Moggridge and introduce him," said Mrs.
Goodwyn-Sandys to Sam. "He is a Collector of Customs, is he not?
Do you think he would recite any of his verses to me?"

"By the hour. But I shouldn't advise you to ask him. It's all about
my sister."

"Which?"