fetched another volume. Archly he indicated the title, cooing, `You
are a lover of this, I hope?' And again I was shamed by my
inexperience.

I did not pretend to know this particular play, but my tone implied
that I had always been meaning to read it and had always by some
mischance been prevented. For his sake as well as my own I did want to
acquit myself passably. I wanted for him the pleasure of seeing his
joys shared by a representative, however humble, of the common world.
I turned the leaves caressingly, looking from them to him, while he
dilated on the beauty of this and that scene in the play. Anon he
fetched another volume, and another, always with the same faith that
this was a favourite of mine. I quibbled, I evaded, I was very
enthusiastic and uncomfortable. It was with intense relief that I
beheld the title-page of yet another volume which (silently, this
time) he laid before me--The Country Wench. `This of course I have
read,' I heartily shouted.

Swinburne stepped back. `You have? You have read it? Where?' he cried,
in evident dismay.

Something was wrong. Had I not, I quickly wondered, read this play?
`Oh yes,' I shouted, `I have read it.'

`But when? Where?' entreated Swinburne, adding that he had supposed it
to be the sole copy extant.

I floundered. I wildly said I thought I must have read it years ago in
the Bodleian. `Theodore! Do you hear this? It seems that they have now
a copy of "The Country Wench" in the Bodleian! Mr. Beerbohm found one