from him. Enough was sufficient. "Now, wouldn't you like to be able to write a wonderful thing like that, Albert?" "Not me, m'lady." "You wouldn't like to be a poet when you grow up?" Albert shook his golden head. "I want to be a butcher when I grow up, m'lady." Maud uttered a little cry. "A butcher?" "Yus, m'lady. Butchers earn good money," he said, a light of enthusiasm in his blue eyes, for he was now on his favourite subject. "You've got to 'ave meat, yer see, m'lady. It ain't like poetry, m'lady, which no one wants." "But, Albert," cried Maud faintly. "Killing poor animals. Surely you wouldn't like that?" Albert's eyes glowed softly, as might an acolyte's at the sight of the censer. "Mr. Widgeon down at the 'ome farm," he murmured reverently, "he says, if I'm a good boy, 'e'll let me watch 'im kill a pig Toosday." He gazed out over the water-lilies, his thoughts far away. Maud shuddered. She wondered if medieval pages were ever quite as earthy as this. "Perhaps you had better go now, Albert. They may be needing you in the house." "Very good, m'lady." Albert rose, not unwilling to call it a day. He was conscious of the need for a quiet cigarette. He was fond of Maud, but a man can't spend all his time with the women. "Pigs squeal like billy-o, m'lady!" he observed by way of adding a parting treasure to Maud's stock of general knowledge. "Oo! 'Ear 'em a mile orf, you can!" Maud remained where she was, thinking, a wistful figure. Tennyson's "Mariana" always made her wistful even when rendered by