r the result.

Nevertheless, she called in Lady Hunsdon and Lady Constance Mortlake,
and fairly enjoyed the consternation visible upon the bright satisfied
countenance of her Maria. Lady Hunsdon, indeed, thought it a great
pity that Anne had not spared her son by selecting one of the beaux
of Bath House instead of the dissolute poet.

"It is quite a tragedy!" she said with energy, "and I for one cannot
permit it. I feel as if it were my fault----"

"It is," said Lady Constance.

"But is it? I am inclined to blame my son, as he brought me here to
reform Mr. Warner--and that part of the work I take credit for----"

"Devil a bit. He never would have come to Bath House without Anne
Percy as a bait. I have learned that he was several times seen staring
through the windows of the saloon before he accepted your invitation."

"In that case he would have managed to meet her even had I not taken
him in hand."

"Logical but doubtful. He had long since lost the entree to Bath House
and to all the Great Houses. Only you, worse luck, had the power to
bring him into a circle where he was able to meet the girl."

"Then you must admit that I have done some good. Had he not been able
to meet her, he no doubt would have gone from bad to worse. I at least
have been the medium in his reform, the necessary medium."

"I don't believe in reform."

"You were brought up at the court of George IV."

"So were you, and therefore should have more sense. Warner is
temporarily set up. No doubt of that. He feels a new man and looks
like one. No doubt he has sworn never to drink again and means it.
But wait till the honeymoon has turned to green cheese. Wait till he
begets another poem. Poets to my mind have neither more nor less than
a rotten spot in the brain that breaks out periodically, as hidden
diseases break out in the body. Look at poor Byron."

It was Lady Hunsdon's turn to be satiric. "Poor dear Byron must have
had a row of rotten spots one of which was always in eruption. One may
judge not so much by his achievements as by his performances."

"Never mind!" cried Lady Constance, the colour deepening in her
pendulous cheeks streaked with purple. "He was the most beautiful
mortal that ever breathed and I was in love with him and am proud of
it."

"I feel much more original that I was not----"

"Oh, dear friends," cried Mrs. Nunn, pathetically. "We have to do
with a living poet--unhappily. Byron has been in Hucknall-Torkard
chu