the earth, and under its ruining waters--"

A squawk of recognized plagiarism interrupted him from Ernestine.

"See Ernest Dowson, page seventy-nine, a thin book of thin verse
ladled out with porridge to young women detentioned at Mills
Seminary," Forrest went on. "As I had already enunciated before I was
so rudely interrupted, the one thing only that can balm and embalm
this savage breast is the 'Maiden's Prayer.' Listen, with all your
ears ere I chew them off in multitude and gross! Listen, silly,
unbeautiful, squat, short-legged and ugly female under the piano! Can
you recite the 'Maiden's Prayer'?"

Screams of delight from the young things in the doorways prevented the
proper answer and Lute, from under the piano, cried out to young
Wainwright, who had appeared:

"A rescue, Sir Knight! A rescue!"

"Unhand the maiden!" was Bert's challenge.

"Who art thou?" Forrest demanded.

"King George, sirrah!--I mean, er, Saint George."

"Then am I thy dragon," Forrest announced with due humility. "Spare
this ancient, honorable, and only neck I have."

"Off with his head!" the young things encouraged.