ask him what he thinks!"

Leonetta was silent, because the difference of opinion concerned Denis,
and she could not take sides against him. So she contented herself with
observing Lord Henry in that grave, interested manner, which is always a
sign that something deeper than consciousness is taking stock of an
object.

The moment Lord Henry had settled himself in a chair, Stephen Fearwell,
who was at the stage of distant and inarticulate adoration towards him,
dropped on the grass in front of him, at Agatha's feet, and contemplated
him with grave interest.

Stimulated pleasantly as he had been by his interview with Cleopatra,
Lord Henry was still enough of a youth and a man to feel equally moved
by the subtle influence of the beautiful girls and the silent young men
about him. This was just the situation in which experience had always
taught him he could shine to the best advantage, and in which his
formidable weapons could be wielded with the finest effect.

"We are discussing poetry, Lord Henry," said Guy Tyrrell.

"Yes," said Stephen a little shyly, "those two fellows Guy and Denis
have had a fit of indigestion I should think; they've been talking about
what they call Victorian verse the whole morning. Look, Denis has got
his Browning with him still. You don't like poetry, do you?" Stephen
blushed a little. It was his first long and direct appeal to the man he
had been secretly admiring ever since the previous evening.

"But I do very much indeed!" Lord Henry protested.

Miss Mallowcoid, Leonetta, Denis, and Guy laughed triumphantly at this,
and Vanessa, Stephen, Agatha, and Sir Joseph stirred awkwardly.

"We're just four against four,--isn't it funny?" cried Vanessa, jerking
Sir Joseph's arm in which hers was locked. "Of course the Tribes are on
our side too, but they stayed at Stonechurch shopping."

"So I'm to give the casting vote, am I?" Lord Henry enquired.

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Vanessa, clapping her hands eagerly, "and you'll
give it to us, won't you, Lord Henry! Please!"

Leonetta regarded her schoolmate with grave disapproval, and as she
glanced down at her hands, raised her eyebrows in grieved surprise.

"Well," said Denis, "you see, Lord Henry, I've been telling these people
about the curious decline in poetry reading, and in the appreciation of
poetry, which is noticeable nowadays."

"I confess I never read it," Sir Joseph averred. "I can never make out
what the fellow's driving at, turning