‘Have you the works of the ancient Sennachie, Macfootle?’ asked Merton.  He was jealous, and his usual urbanity was sorely tried by the Irish bard.  In short, he was rude; stupid, too.

However, Blake had his revenge after dinner, on the roof of the observatory, where the ladies gathered round him in the faint silver light, looking over the sleeping sea.  ‘Far away to the west,’ he said, ‘lies the Celtic paradise, the Isle of Apples!’

‘American apples are excellent,’ said Merton, but the beauty of the scene and natural courtesy caused Miss Macrae to whisper ‘Hush!’

The poet went on, ’May I speak to you the words of the emissary from the lovely land?’

‘The mysterious female?’ said Merton brutally.  ’Dr. Hyde calls her “a mysterious female.”  It is in his Literary History of Ireland.’

‘Pray let us hear the poem, Mr. Merton,’ said Miss Macrae, attuned to the charm of the hour and the scene.

‘She came to Bran’s Court,’ said Blake, ’from the Isle of Apples, and no man knew whence she came, and she chanted to them.’

‘Twenty-eight quatrains, no less, a hundred and twelve lines,’ said the insufferable Merton.  ‘Could you give us them in Gaelic?’

The bard went on, not noticing the interruption, ’I shall translate

   ’There is a distant isle
   Around which sea horses glisten,
   A fair course against the white swelling surge,
   Four feet uphold it.’

   ‘Feet of white bronze under it.’

‘White bronze, what’s that, eh?’ asked the practical Mr. Macrae.

   ’Glittering through beautiful ages! 
   Lovely land through the world’s age,
   On which the white blossoms drop.’

‘Beautiful!’ said Miss Macrae.

‘There are twenty-six more quatrains,’ said Merton.

The bard went on,

   ’A beautiful game, most delightful
   They play—­’

‘Ping-pong?’ murmured Merton.

‘Hush!’ said Lady Bude.

Miss Macrae turned to the poet.

   ’They play, sitting at the luxurious wine,
   Men and gentle women under a bush,
   Without sin, without crime.’

‘They are playing still,’ Blake added.  ’Unbeheld, undisturbed!  I verily believe there is no Gael even now who would not in his heart of hearts let drift by him the Elysiums of Virgil, Dante, and Milton, to grasp at the Moy Mell, the Apple Isle, of the unknown Irish pagan!  And then to play sitting at the luxurious wine,

   ‘Men and gentle women under a bush!’

’It really cannot have been ping-pong that they played at, sitting.  Bridge, more likely,’ said Merton.  ‘And “good wine needs no bush!"’

The bard moved away, accompanied by his young hostess, who resented Merton’s cynicism

‘Tell me more of that lovely poem, Mr. Blake,’ she said.

‘I am jangled and out of tune,’ said Blake wildly.  ’The Sassenach is my torture!  Let me take your hand, it is cool as the hands of the foam-footed maidens of—­of—­what’s the name of the place?’