And Charles Holroyd has got the cake.

After turning round a rather sharp corner I began to ask Theodormon if
John Addington Symonds was anywhere to be found. He smiled, and said: 'I
know why you are asking. Of course he _is_ here, but we don't see much
of him. He published, at the Kelmscott, the other day, "An Ode to a
Grecian Urning." The proceeds of the sale went to the Arts and Krafts
Ebbing Guild, but the issue of "Aretino's Bosom, and other Poems," has
been postponed.'

We now reached a graceful Renaissance building covered with blossoms; on
each side of the door were two blue-breeched gondoliers smoking calamus.
Theodormon hurried on, whispering: '_That_ is where he lives. If you
want to see Swinburne you had better make haste, as it is getting late,
and I want you to inspect the Castalian spring.'

The walking became very rough just here; it was really climbing. Suddenly
I became aware of dense smoke emerging with a rumbling sound from an
overhanging rock.

'I had no idea Parnassus was volcanic now,' I remarked.

'No more had we,' said Theodormon; 'it is quite a recent eruption due to
the Celtic movement. The rock you see, however, is not a real rock, but
a sham rock. Mr. George Moore has been turned out of the cave, and is
still hovering about the entrance.'

Looming through the smoke, which hung like a veil of white muslin between
us, I was able to trace the silhouette of that engaging countenance which
Edouard Manet and others have immortalised. 'Go away,' he said: 'I do