"Really, I don't know. I seldom come to this sort of thing. I don't
think it pays."

"Oh, nothing pays, of course," was Fenton's reply, "but it is more or
less amusing to see people make fools of themselves."

The president of the club, at this moment, called the assembly to
order, and announced that Mr. Fenwick had kindly consented--"Readers
always kindly consent," muttered Fenton aside to Mrs. Staggchase--to
read, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, to which they would now listen.
There was a rustle of people settling back into their chairs; the
reader brushed a lank black lock from his sallow brow, and with a tone
of sepulchral earnestness began:

"'No more wine? then we'll push back chairs, and talk.'"

For something over an hour, the monotonous voice of the reader went
dully on. Fenton drew out his tablets and amused himself and Miss
Dimmont by drawing caricatures of the company, ending with a sketch of
a handsome old dowager, who went so soundly to sleep that her jaw fell.
Over this his companion laughed so heartily that Mrs. Staggchase leaned
forward smilingly, and took his tablets away from him; whereat he
produced an envelope from his pocket and was about to begin another
sketch, when suddenly, and apparently somewhat to the surprise of the
reader, the poem came to an end.

There was a joyful stir. The dowager awoke, and there was a perfunctory
clapping of hands when Mr. Fenwick laid down his volume, and people
were assured that there was no mistake about his being really quite