"Ah, exactly; 'to fly away.' So simple--just what one _would_ wish
wings for, you know. It struck me very much when I read it.
When did you think of it, Mr. Moggridge?"

The poet blushed and began to look uncomfortable.

"Ah! you are reticent. Excuse me; I ought not to probe a poet's
soul. Still, I should like to be able to tell my friends--"

"The--the fact is," stammered Mr. Moggridge, "I--I thought of them--
in--my bath."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys leaned back and laughed--a pretty rippling laugh
that shook the diamonds upon her throat. Sam guffawed, and by this
action sprang that little rift between the friends that widened
before long into a gulf.

"I shall ask you to copy them into my Album. I always victimise a
lion when I meet one."

This was said with a glance full of compensation. Mr. Moggridge
tried to look very leonine indeed. Across the room another pair of
eyes gently reproached him. Never before had he tarried so long from
Sophia's side. Poor little heart! beating so painfully beneath your
dowdy muslin bodice. It was early yet for you to ache.

"Oh, ah, Dick Cheddar--knew him well," came in the sonorous tones of
the Honourable Frederic from the whist-table. "So you were at
College with him--first cousin to Lord Stilton--get the title if he
only outlives the old man--good fellow, Dick--but drinks."