“I wish he were alive now and would write me a part, a real woman’s part.  The women have so little to do in Shakespeare’s plays.  There’s Juliet; but one can’t play Juliet till one’s forty, and then one’s too old to look fourteen.  There’s Lady Macbeth; but she’s got nothing to do except walk in her sleep and say, ‘Out, damned spot!’ There were not actresses in his days, and of course it was no use writing a woman’s part for a boy.”

“You should have been born in France,” said Faubourg, “Racine’s women are created for you to play.”

“Ah! you’ve got Sarah,” said Mrs. Duncan, “you don’t want anyone else.”

“I think Racine’s boring,” said Mrs. Lockton, “he’s so artificial.”

“Oh! don’t say that,” said Giles, “Racine is the most exquisite of poets, so sensitive, so acute, and so harmonious.”

“I like Rostand better,” said Mrs. Lockton.

“Rostand!” exclaimed Miss Tring, in disgust, “he writes such bad verses—­du caoutchouc—­he’s so vulgar.”

“It is true,” said Willmott, “he’s an amateur.  He has never written professionally for his bread but only for his pleasure.”

“But in that sense,” said Giles, “God is an amateur.”

“I confess,” said Peebles, “that I cannot appreciate French poetry.  I can read Rousseau with pleasure, and Bossuet; but I cannot admire Corneille and Racine.”

“Everybody writes plays now,” said Faubourg, with a sigh.

“I have never written a play,” said Lord Pantry.

“Nor I,” said Lockton.

“But nearly everyone at this table has,” said Faubourg.  “Mrs. Baldwin has written ‘Matilda,’ Mr. Giles has written a tragedy called ’Queen Swaflod,’ I wrote a play in my youth, my ‘Le Menetrier de Parme’; I’m sure Corporal has written a play.  Count Sciarra must have written several; have you ever written a play?” he said, turning to his neighbour, the stranger.

“Yes,” answered the stranger, “I once wrote a play called ‘Hamlet.’”

“You were courageous with such an original before you,” said Faubourg, severely.

“Yes,” said the stranger, “the original was very good, but I think,” he added modestly, “that I improved upon it.”

“Encore un faiseur de paradoxes!” murmured Faubourg to himself in disgust.

In the meantime Willmott was giving Professor Morgan the benefit of his views on Greek art, punctuated with allusions to Tariff Reform and devolution for the benefit of Blenheim.

Luncheon was over and cigarettes were lighted.  Mrs. Bergmann had quite made up her mind that she had been cheated, and there was only one thing for which she consoled herself, and that was that she had not waited for luncheon but had gone down immediately, since so far all her guests had kept up a continuous stream of conversation, which had every now and then become general, though they still every now and then glanced at the empty chair and wondered what the coming attraction was going to be.  Mrs. Milden had carried on two almost interrupted tete-a-tetes, first with one of her neighbours, then with the other.  In fact everybody had talked, except the stranger, who had hardly spoken, and since Faubourg had turned away from him in disgust, nobody had taken any further notice of him.