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If we practise the latter with the greatest earnestness, are stricter about the rehearsals, in fact, it is not wonderful." "But then, if you explain everything away like that, there is no residuum left. Where is the reality? Where is the real man?" Mr. Amarinth smiled with a wide sweetness. "The real man is a Mrs. Harris," he replied. "There is, believe me, 'no sich a person."
And canons are very difficult to convert, I am told." "Then she is a good woman. And is Lord Reggie fond of her?" "Oh yes, very. He spent a week with her last year, and I think he intends to spend another this year. She is very pleased about it. He and Mr. Amarinth are going down for the hop-picking." "What a strange idea!" "Yes, deliciously original. They say that hop-picking is quite Arcadian.
"Mozart and Bach have given me belief that not even the subversive impotencies of Sir Arthur Sullivan, and the terribly obvious 'mysteries' of Dr. A. C. Mackenzie, have been able to take from me," murmured Lord Reggie. "Ah! Reggie, each decade has its poet Bunn," remarked Amarinth. "We have our Bunn in Mr. Joseph Bennett, but where are his plums? Religion dwells in the arts, Mr.
"What do you think about it, Reggie?" Amarinth said, as they began to discuss their oysters. "Could you commit the madness of matrimony with Lady Locke? You are so wonderful as you are, so complete in yourself, that I scarcely dare to wish it, or anything else for you: and you live so comfortably upon debts, that it might be unwise to risk the possible discomfort of having money.
Esmé Amarinth and Lord Reggie were busy at the piano, inventing and composing the elevation of "Three blind mice." Lady Locke could hear an odd little primitive sort of tune, and then their voices singing, one after the other, some words. She could only catch a few. "Rose white youth, Rose white youth, Rose white youth," sang Lord Reggie's clear, but rather thin voice.
Amarinth never laughs at any one, Emily," said Mrs. Windsor. "He makes others laugh. I wish I could say clever things. I would rather be able to talk in epigrams, and hear Society repeating what I said, than be the greatest author or artist that ever lived. You are luckier than I, Lord Reggie. I heard a bon mot of yours at the Foreign Office last night." "Indeed. What was it?"
She wore an innocent gown powdered with pimpernels, and a little bonnet that she thought holiness itself, consisting as it did of a very small bow and a very large spike. Lord Reggie and Esmé Amarinth honoured the day with frock coats and tall hats; and the former was in a state of considerable excitement about his anthem.
"What a delicious name. It might have been invented by Izaac Walton. It suggests a picture by George Morland. I love his canvases, rustics carousing " But before he could get any further, Reggie caught his eye and formed silently with his lips the words, "Remember my anthem." "He idealises so much," Amarinth went on easily. "Of course a real carouse is horribly inartistic.
"Quite so," said Mr. Amarinth, with extreme gentleness. "That would be the object of the performance, to unfit one for the duties of the day. How beautiful! What a glorious sight it would be to see a great audience flocking out into the orange-coloured sunshine, each unit of which was thoroughly unfitted for any duties whatsoever.
Amarinth and Lord Reggie are going to have a school treat. Last year they got up a mothers' meeting instead, and Mr. Amarinth read his last essay on 'The Wickedness of Virtue' aloud to the mothers. They so enjoyed it. One of them said to me afterwards, 'I never knew what religion really was before, ma'am. They are so deliciously simple, you know.
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