“’The undersigned begs to thank his friends and the public for their continued patronage, and gives notice that gentlemen of neglected education can take lessons of him as usual on his own premises, at eightpence an hour, on the art of making offers to the fair sex.  N.B.—­This course paid in advance.

“’Dummy ladies provided as large as life.  Every gentleman brings a clean white pocket-handkerchief, and goes down on his own knees when he learns this exercise, Fancy styles extra.

“’Signed,

“’Valentine Melcombe.

“‘References exchanged.’”

“You impudent young dog!” exclaimed Valentine, delighted with this sally, and not at all sorry that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer were out of hearing—­they having risen and strolled down to a lower portion of the orchard.

Valentine was seated on a low garden-chair, and his young guests were grouped about him on a Persian carpet which had been spread there.  Gladys was roused from her reverie by seeing Valentine snatch a piece of paper from Crayshaw—­peals of laughter following his pretended reading of it.

“They actually think, those two, of having their poems printed,” Barbara had been saying.

“It would only cost about L30,” said Crayshaw, excusing himself, “and Mrs. Mortimer promised to subscribe for twenty copies.  Why, Lord Byron did it.  If he wrote better Latin verse than Scroggins does, where is it?”

“The first one, then,” said Barbara, “ought to be Johnnie’s parody that he did in the holidays.  Mamma gave him a title for it, ’Ode on a Distant Prospect of leaving Harrow School.’”

Then it was that Valentine snatched the paper.

“Most of them are quite serious,” Crayshaw here remarked.

“Ah, so this is the list of them,” said Valentine, pretending to read:—­

“‘POEMS BY TWO SCHOOLBOYS.’

“One.—­’Lines written on a late Auspicious Occasion’ (I do so like that word auspicious), ’and presented to my new step-uncle-in-law, with a smile and a tear.’  I’ll read them:—­

     “’Respecting thee with all my might,
     Thy virtues thus I sing.’”

“It’s a story!” shouted Johnnie, interrupting him.  “I don’t respect you a bit, and I never wrote it.”

“Two,” proceeded Valentine, “‘The Whisper, by a Lisper,’ and ’The Stick of Chocolate, a Reverie.’  Now, do you mean to tell me that you did not write these?”

“No, I didn’t! you know I didn’t!”

“Four,” Valentine went on, “‘The City of the Skunk, an Ode.’  Now, Cray, it is of no use your saying you did not write this, for you sent me a copy, and told me that was the poetical name for Chicago.”

“Well,” said Crayshaw, “I tried that subject because Mr. Mortimer said something about the true sustenance of the poetic life coming from the race and the soil to which the poet belonged; but George was so savage when I showed it to him that I felt obliged to burn it.”