Still more dreamily I found myself following this imperious voice intoa room where the Earl, his daughter, and Arthur, were seated."So you're come at last!" said Lady Muriel, in a tone of playful reproach.

"I was delayed," I stammered. Though what it was that had delayed me Ishould have been puzzled to explain! Luckily no questions were asked.

The carriage was ordered round, the hamper, containing our contributionto the Picnic, was duly stowed away, and we set forth.

There was no need for me to maintain the conversation. Lady Muriel andArthur were evidently on those most delightful of terms, where one hasno need to check thought after thought, as it rises to the lips, withthe fear 'this will not be appreciated--this will give' offence--this will sound too serious--this will sound flippant': like very oldfriends, in fullest sympathy, their talk rippled on.

"Why shouldn't we desert the Picnic and go in some other direction?"she suddenly suggested. "A party of four is surely self-sufficing?And as for food, our hamper--"

"Why shouldn't we? What a genuine lady's argument!" laughed Arthur."A lady never knows on which side the onus probandi--the burden ofproving--lies!"

"Do men always know?" she asked with a pretty assumption of meek docility.

"With one exception--the only one I can think of Dr. Watts, who hasasked the senseless question

'Why should I deprive my neighbourOf his goods against his will?'

Fancy that as an argument for Honesty! His position seems to be 'I'monly honest because I see no reason to steal.' And the thief's answeris of course complete and crushing. 'I deprive my neighbour of hisgoods because I want them myself. And I do it against his will becausethere's no chance of getting him to consent to it!'"

"I can give you one other exception," I said: "an argument I heard onlyto-day---and not by a lady. 'Why shouldn't I walk on my own forehead?'"

"What a curious subject for speculation!" said Lady Muriel, turning to me,with eyes brimming over with laughter. "May we know who propoundedthe question? And did he walk on his own forehead?"

"I ca'n't remember who it was that said it!" I faltered. "Nor where Iheard it!"

"Whoever it was, I hope we shall meet him at the Picnic!" said Lady Muriel."It's a far more interesting question than 'Isn't this a picturesque ruin?'Aren't those autumn-tints lovely?' I shall have to answer those twoquestions ten times, at least, this afternoon!"

"That's one of the miseries of Society!" said Arthur. "Why ca'n'tpeople let one enjoy the beauties of Nature without having to say soevery minute? Why should Life be one long Catechism?"

"It's just as bad at a picture-gallery," the Earl remarked."I went to the R.A. last May, with a conceited young artist: and he didtorment me! I wouldn't have minded his criticizing the pictures himself:but I had to agree with him--or else to argue the point, which would havebeen worse!"

"It was depreciatory criticism, of course?" said Arthur.

"I don't see the 'of course' at all."

"Why, did you ever know a conceited man dare to praise a picture?The one thing he dreads (next to not being noticed) is to be provedfallible! If you once praise a picture, your character forinfallibility hangs by a thread. Suppose it's a figure-picture, andyou venture to say 'draws well.' Somebody measures it, and finds one ofthe proportions an eighth of an inch wrong. You are disposed of as acritic! 'Did you say he draws well?'your friends enquire sarcastically, while you hang your head and blush.No. The only safe course, if any one says 'draws well,' is to shrugyour shoulders. 'Draws well?' you repeat thoughtfully. 'Draws well?Humph!' That's the way to become a great critic!"

Thus airily chatting, after a pleasant drive through a few miles ofbeautiful scenery, we reached the rendezvous--a ruined castle--wherethe rest of the picnic-party were already assembled. We spent an houror two in sauntering about the ruins: gathering at last, by commonconsent, into a few random groups, seated on the side of a mound,which commanded a good view of the old castle and its surroundings.

The momentary silence, that ensued, was promptly taken possession of or,more correctly, taken into custody--by a Voice; a voice so smooth,so monotonous, so sonorous, that one felt, with a shudder, that anyother conversation was precluded, and that, unless some desperateremedy were adopted, we were fated to listen to a Lecture, of which noman could foresee the end!

The speaker was a broadly-built man, whose large, flat, pale face wasbounded on the North by a fringe of hair, on the East and West by afringe of whisker, and on the South by a fringe of beard--the wholeconstituting a uniform halo of stubbly whitey-brown bristles. Hisfeatures were so entirely destitute of expression that I could not helpsaying to myself--helplessly, as if in the clutches of a night-mare--"they are only penciled in: no final touches as yet!" And he had a wayof ending every sentence with a sudden smile, which spread like a rippleover that vast blank surface, and was gone in a moment, leaving behindit such absolute solemnity that I felt impelled to murmur"it was not he: it was somebody else that smiled!"

"Do you observe?" (such was the phrase with which the wretch began eachsentence) "Do you observe the way in which that broken arch, at thevery top of the ruin, stands out against the clear sky? It is placedexactly right: and there is exactly enough of it. A little more, or alittle less, and all would be utterly spoiled!"

[Image...A lecture, on art]

"Oh gifted architect!" murmured Arthur, inaudibly to all butLady Muriel and myself. "Foreseeing the exact effect his work wouldhave, when in ruins, centuries after his death!"

"And do you observe, where those trees slope down the hill, (indicatingthem with a sweep of the hand, and with all the patronising air of theman who has himself arranged the landscape), "how the mists rising fromthe river fill up exactly those intervals where we need indistinctness,for artistic effect? Here, in the foreground, a few clear touches arenot amiss: but a back-ground without mist, you know! It is simplybarbarous! Yes, we need indistinctness!"

The orator looked so pointedly at me as he uttered these words, that Ifelt bound to reply, by murmuring something to the effect that I hardlyfelt the need myself--and that I enjoyed looking at a thing, better,when I could see it.

"Quite so!" the great man sharply took me up. "From your point ofview, that is correctly put. But for anyone who has a soul for Art,such a view is preposterous. Nature is one thing. Art is another.Nature shows us the world as it is. But Art--as a Latin author tellsus--Art, you know the words have escaped my memory "Ars est celareNaturam," Arthur interposed with a delightful promptitude.

"Quite so!" the orator replied with an air of relief. "I thank you!Ars est celare Naturam but that isn't it." And, for a few peacefulmoments, the orator brooded, frowningly, over the quotation. Thewelcome opportunity was seized, and another voice struck into thesilence.

"What a lovely old ruin it is!" cried a young lady in spectacles,the very embodiment of the March of Mind, looking at Lady Muriel, as theproper recipient of all really original remarks. "And don't you admirethose autumn-tints on the trees? I do, intensely!"

Lady Muriel shot a meaning glance at me; but replied with admirablegravity. "Oh yes indeed, indeed! So true!"

"And isn't strange, said the young lady, passing with startlingsuddenness from Sentiment to Science, "that the mere impact of certaincoloured rays upon the Retina should give us such exquisite pleasure?"

"You have studied Physiology, then?" a certain young Doctor courteouslyenquired.

"Oh, yes! Isn't it a sweet Science?"

Arthur slightly smiled. "It seems a paradox, does it not," he went on,"that the image formed on the Retina should be inverted?"

"It is puzzling," she candidly admitted. "Why is it we do not seethings upside-down?"

"You have never heard the Theory, then, that the Brain also isinverted?"

"No indeed! What a beautiful fact! But how is it proved?"

"Thus," replied Arthur, with all the gravity of ten Professors rolledinto one. "What we call the vertex of the Brain is really its base:and what we call its base is really its vertex: it is simply a questionof nomenclature."

This last polysyllable settled the matter.

"How truly delightful!" the fair Scientist exclaimed with enthusiasm."I shall ask our Physiological Lecturer why he never gave us thatexquisite Theory!"

"I'd give something to be present when the question is asked!" Arthurwhispered to me, as, at a signal from Lady Muriel, we moved on to wherethe hampers had been collected, and devoted ourselves to the moresubstantial business of the day.

We 'waited' on ourselves, as the modern barbarism (combining two goodthings in such a way as to secure the discomforts of both andthe advantages of neither) of having a picnic with servants to waitupon you, had not yet reached this out-of-the-way region--and of coursethe gentlemen did not even take their places until the ladies had beenduly provided with all imaginable creature-comforts. Then I suppliedmyself with a plate of something solid and a glass of something fluid,and found a place next to Lady Muriel.

It had been left vacant--apparently for Arthur, as a distinguishedstranger: but he had turned shy, and had placed himself next to theyoung lady in spectacles, whose high rasping voice had already castloose upon Society such ominous phrases as "Man is a bundle ofQualities!", "the Objective is only attainable through the Subjective!".Arthur was bearing it bravely: but several faces wore a look of alarm,and I thought it high time to start some less metaphysical topic.

"In my nursery days," I began, "when the weather didn't suit for anout-of-doors picnic, we were allowed to have a peculiar kind, that weenjoyed hugely. The table cloth was laid under the table, instead ofupon it: we sat round it on the floor: and I believe we really enjoyedthat extremely uncomfortable kind of dinner more than we ever did theorthodox arrangement!"

"I've no doubt of it," Lady Muriel replied.

"There's nothing a well-regulated child hates so much as regularity.I believe a really healthy boy would thoroughly enjoy Greek Grammar--if only he might stand on his head to learn it! And your carpet-dinnercertainly spared you one feature of a picnic, which is to me its chiefdrawback."

"The chance of a shower?" I suggested.

"No, the chance--or rather the certainty of live things occurring incombination with one's food! Spiders are my bugbear. Now my father hasno sympathy with that sentiment--have you, dear?" For the Earl hadcaught the word and turned to listen.

"To each his sufferings, all are men," he replied in the sweet sadtones that seemed natural to him: "each has his pet aversion."

"But you'll never guess his!" Lady Muriel said, with that delicatesilvery laugh that was music to my ears.

I declined to attempt the impossible.

"He doesn't like snakes!" she said, in a stage whisper. "Now, isn'tthat an unreasonable aversion? Fancy not liking such a dear, coaxingly,clingingly affectionate creature as a snake!"

"Not like snakes!" I exclaimed. "Is such a thing possible?"

"No, he doesn't like them," she repeated with a pretty mock-gravity."He's not afraid of them, you know. But he doesn't like them.He says they're too waggly!"

I was more startled than I liked to show. There was something souncanny in this echo of the very words I had so lately heard from thatlittle forest-sprite, that it was only by a great effort I succeeded insaying, carelessly, "Let us banish so unpleasant a topic. Won't yousing us something, Lady Muriel? I know you do sing without music."

"The only songs I know--without music--are desperately sentimental,I'm afraid! Are your tears all ready?"

"Quite ready! Quite ready!" came from all sides, and Lady Muriel--notbeing one of those lady-singers who think it de rigueur to decline tosing till they have been petitioned three or four times, and havepleaded failure of memory, loss of voice, and other conclusive reasonsfor silence--began at once:--

[Image...'Three badgers on a mossy stone']

"There be three Badgers on a mossy stone,Beside a dark and covered way:Each dreams himself a monarch on his throne,And so they stay and stayThough their old Father languishes alone,They stay, and stay, and stay.

"There be three Herrings loitering around,Longing to share that mossy seat:Each Herring tries to sing what she has foundThat makes Life seem so sweet.Thus, with a grating and uncertain sound,They bleat, and bleat, and bleat,

"The Mother-Herring, on the salt sea-wave,Sought vainly for her absent ones:The Father-Badger, writhing in a cave,Shrieked out ' Return, my sons!You shalt have buns,' he shrieked,' if you'll behave!Yea, buns, and buns, and buns!'

"'I fear,' said she, 'your sons have gone astray?My daughters left me while I slept.''Yes 'm,' the Badger said: 'it's as you say.''They should be better kept.'Thus the poor parents talked the time away,And wept, and wept, and wept."

Here Bruno broke off suddenly. "The Herrings' Song wants anuvver tune,Sylvie," he said. "And I ca'n't sing it not wizout oo plays it for me!"

[Image...'Three badgers, writhing in a cave']

Instantly Sylvie seated herself upon a tiny mushroom, that happenedto grow in front of a daisy, as if it were the most ordinarymusical instrument in the world, and played on the petals as if theywere the notes of an organ. And such delicious tiny music it was!Such teeny-tiny music!

Bruno held his head on one side, and listened very gravely for a fewmoments until he had caught the melody. Then the sweet childish voicerang out once more:--

"Oh, dear beyond our dearest dreams,Fairer than all that fairest seems!To feast the rosy hours away,To revel in a roundelay!How blest would beA life so free---Ipwergis-Pudding to consume,And drink the subtle Azzigoom!

"And if in other days and hours,Mid other fluffs and other flowers,The choice were given me how to dine---'Name what thou wilt: it shalt be thine!'Oh, then I seeThe life for meIpwergis-Pudding to consume,And drink the subtle Azzigoom!"

"Oo may leave off playing now, Sylvie. I can do the uvver tune muchbetter wizout a compliment."

"He means 'without accompaniment,'" Sylvie whispered, smiling at mypuzzled look: and she pretended to shut up the stops of the organ.

"The Badgers did not care to talk to Fish:They did not dote on Herrings' songs:They never had experienced the dishTo which that name belongs:And oh, to pinch their tails,' (this was their wish,)'With tongs, yea, tongs, and tongs!'"

I ought to mention that he marked the parenthesis, in the air, with hisfinger. It seemed to me a very good plan. You know there's no soundto represent it--any more than there is for a question.

Suppose you have said to your friend "You are better to-day," and thatyou want him to understand that you are asking him a question, what canbe simpler than just to make a "?". in the air with your finger?He would understand you in a moment!

[Image...'Those aged one waxed gay']

"'And are not these the Fish,' the Eldest sighed,'Whose Mother dwells beneath the foam''They are the Fish!' the Second one replied.'And they have left their home!''Oh wicked Fish,' the Youngest Badger cried,'To roam, yea, roam, and roam!'"Gently the Badgers trotted to the shoreThe sandy shore that fringed the bay:Each in his mouth a living Herring bore--Those aged ones waxed gay:Clear rang their voices through the ocean's roar,'Hooray, hooray, hooray!'"

"So they all got safe home again," Bruno said, after waiting a minuteto see if I had anything to say: he evidently felt that some remarkought to be made. And I couldn't help wishing there were some suchrule in Society, at the conclusion of a song--that the singer herselfshould say the right thing, and not leave it to the audience. Supposea young lady has just been warbling ('with a grating and uncertain sound')Shelley's exquisite lyric 'I arise from dreams of thee': how much nicerit would be, instead of your having to say "Oh, thank you, thank you!"for the young lady herself to remark, as she draws on her gloves,while the impassioned words 'Oh, press it to thine own, or it will breakat last!' are still ringing in your ears, "--but she wouldn't do it,you know. So it did break at last."

"And I knew it would!" she added quietly, as I started at the suddencrash of broken glass. "You've been holding it sideways for the lastminute, and letting all the champagne run out! Were you asleep,I wonder? I'm so sorry my singing has such a narcotic effect!"