"I like him not--his subtle smile
Conceals beneath some purpose vile,
Tho' bland his gaze and fair his speech
Oh trust him not, I do beseech;
For as a seeming simple flower
May hide a scent of evil power,
Which lures with its envenomed
The trusting wearer to his death;
So tho' his tongue may kindly prate,
He oathes thee with undying hate."

Now that Basil Beaumont had succeeded in gaining Una's gratitude, if not her friendship, he determined to next win over Dr. Larcher to his side. He had already managed to gain a certain influence over Reginald Blake, but he saw plainly that the worthy vicar was not prepossessed in his favour, and, as he would prove an invaluable ally should Patience prove dangerous, Beaumont was anxious to impress him with a good estimate of his character.

The cynical man of the world seemed to have changed altogether since his interview with Patience Allerby, and no one seeing the interest he took in the simple pleasures of village life would dream that behind all this apparent simplicity he concealed a subtle design. His acting was in the highest degree artificial, yet so thoroughly true to nature that everyone was deceived and never saw the ravenous wolf hidden under the innocent skin of the lamb.

Of course, Patience Allerby had too minute a knowledge of his real nature to be deceived by the mask of innocence and gaiety he now chose to assume, and as Basil Beaumont knew this only too well, he was anxious to lose no time in raising up to himself an army of well-wishers against the honest indignation of the woman he had deserted should she interfere with his schemes. Mrs. Larcher, Miss Cassy, Una and Reginald had now all an excellent opinion of him, so he was anxious to secure the good wishes of Dr. Larcher, thus leaving Patience to fight her battle single-handed against the crowd of friends he had so dexterously secured.

Notwithstanding the lateness of the season it was a very pleasant day, with a certain warmth and brightness in the air despite the keen wind which was blowing, and on his arrival at the vicarage Beaumont found the young people playing lawn-tennis; Pumpkin and Ferdinand Priggs holding their own in a somewhat erratic fashion against Reginald and Dick Pemberton.

Beaumont sauntered on to the lawn with his everlasting cigarette between his lips, but threw it away as he was hailed joyously by Reginald and the four players, who paused for a moment in the game.

"How do you do, Miss Larcher?" said Beaumont, lazily raising his hat, "this is a comprehensive greeting, and includes everybody. I've called to see the vicar."

"Papa's out just now," observed Pumpkin, "but he will be back soon. Will you wait, Mr. Beaumont?"

"Thank you--I will," answered Beaumont, sitting down on a garden bench.

"Have a game?" cried Reginald, flinging his racquet into the air and catching it dexterously in his hand.

"Too much like hard work."

"Then have some tea," suggested Pumpkin persuasively.

"Ah, that is better, Miss Larcher," replied Beaumont gaily; "yes, I should like some tea."

"Bring it out here," said Dick, who had thrown himself down on the soft green grass, "it will be jolly having a spread outside."

"How you do misuse the Queen's English," murmured Mr. Priggs as Miss Larcher went inside to order the tea.

"Only in prose," retorted Dick coolly, "think how you mutilate it in poetry."

"I'm afraid you're rather severe on Priggs," said Beaumont, who was anxious to conciliate everyone, even the poet, for whom he had a profound contempt.

"You wouldn't say so if you saw his poetry," replied Pemberton laughing.

"Oh, come now, Dick," said Reginald lightly, "that's rather hard--some of Ferdinand's poetry is beautiful."

"And gruesome."

"Dick cares for nothing but music-hall songs," explained the poetic Ferdinand loftily.

"Oh yes, I do--for cake and tea, among other things, and here it comes. Make a rhyme on it, Ferdy."

"Don't call me Ferdy," said Priggs sharply.

"Then Birdie," observed Dick, in a teasing tone, "though you're more like an owl than any other bird."

"Now don't fight," said Pumpkin, who was now seated in front of a rustic table on which the tea-things were set out. "Milk and sugar, Mr. Beaumont?"

"Both, thank you," said Beaumont, bending forward. "By-the-way, I saw Miss Challoner to-day--we were talking about you, Blake."

"Were you indeed?" observed Reginald, rather irritated at the free and easy manner of the speaker.

"Yes--about your voice. I got a letter from a friend of mine in Town, of which I will tell you later on."

"I suppose Reggy will be leaving us all for London soon," said Dick enviously.

"Lucky Reginald," sighed Ferdinand, "I wish I were going to London."

"What, with a bundle of poems in your pocket?" said Reginald laughing. "I'm afraid you wouldn't set the Thames on fire--poetry doesn't pay."

"Nor literature of any sort," observed Dick, "at least, so I understand."

"Then you understand wrong," said Beaumont coolly, "you go by Scott's saying, I presume--that literature is a good staff but a bad crutch--all that is altered now."

"Not as regards poetry."

"No--not as regards poetry certainly, but success in literature greatly depends on the tact of a writer; if a young man goes to London with a translation of Horace or Lucian in his pocket he will find his goods are not wanted; if Milton went to Paternoster Row at the present time, with the MS. of 'Paradise Lost' in his hand, I don't believe he would find a publisher. We talk a great deal of noble poems and beautiful thoughts, but it's curious what unsaleable articles even the best of them are."

"Then what does sell?" asked Ferdinand.

"Anything that pleases the public--a sensational novel--a sparkling Society poem--a brilliant magazine article--a witty play--you'll get plenty of chances to make money with these things; you see people live so rapidly now that they have no time to study in their play hours, therefore they want the very froth and foam of the time served up to them for their reading, so as to take their thoughts off their work. We praise 'Tom Jones' and 'Clarissa' immensely, but who reads them when they can skim the last three volume novel or the latest pungent article on the state of Europe?--no one wants to be instructed now-a-days, but they do want to be amused."

"How do people live in London?" asked Pumpkin, who, being an unsophisticated country maiden, was absolutely ignorant of anything connected with the great metropolis.

"They live with a hansom cab at the door and their watch in their hand," retorted Beaumont cynically; "they give two minutes to one thing, five minutes to another, and think they are enjoying themselves--get a smattering of all things and a thorough knowledge of nothing--the ............