political literature to the sick woman, and the Duchess was quite
absurdly annoyed about it afterwards. It seems the leaflet was addressed
"To those about to wobble"--I wasn't responsible for the silly title of
the thing--and the woman never recovered; anyway, the voter was
completely won over by the grapes and jellies, and I think that should
have balanced matters. The Duchess called it bribery, and said it might
have compromised the candidate she was supporting; he was expected to
subscribe to church funds and chapel funds, and football and cricket
clubs and regattas, and bazaars and beanfeasts and bellringers, and
poultry shows and ploughing matches, and reading-rooms and choir outings,
and shooting trophies and testimonials, and anything of that sort; but
bribery would not have been tolerated.

I fancy I have perhaps more talent for electioneering than for poetry,
and I was really getting extended over this quatrain business. The egg
began to be unmanageable, and the Duchess suggested something with a
French literary ring about it. I hunted back in my mind for the most
familiar French classic that I could take liberties with, and after a
little exercise of memory I turned out the following:--

"Hast thou the pen that once the gardener had?
I have it not; and know, these pears are bad.
Oh, larger than the horses of the Prince
Are those the general drives in Kaikobad."

Even that didn't altogether satisfy Irene; I fancy the geography of it
puzzled her. She probably thought Kaikobad was an unfashionable German
spa, where you'd meet matrimonial bargain-hunters and emergency Servian
kings. My temper was beginning to slip its moorings by that time. I
look rather nice when I lose my temper. (I hoped you would say I lose it
very often. I mustn't monopolise the conversation.)

"Of course, if you want something really Persian and passionate, with red
wine and bulbuls in it," I went on to suggest; but she grabbed the book
away from me.

"Not for worlds. Nothing with red wine or passion in it. Dear Agatha
gave me the album, and she would be mortified to the quick"--

I said I didn't believe Agatha had a quick, and we got quite heated in
arguing the matter. Finally, the Duchess declared I shouldn't write
anything nasty in her book, and I said I wouldn't write anything in her
nasty book, so there wasn't a very wide point of difference between us.
For the rest of the afternoon I pretended to be sulki