While George and Billie Dore wandered to the rose garden tointerview the man in corduroys, Maud had been seated not a hundredyards away--in a very special haunt of her own, a cracked stuccotemple set up in the days of the Regency on the shores of a littlelily-covered pond. She was reading poetry to Albert the page.

　　Albert the page was a recent addition to Maud's inner circle. Shehad interested herself in him some two months back in much the samespirit as the prisoner in his dungeon cell tames and pets theconventional mouse. To educate Albert, to raise him above hisgroove in life and develop his soul, appealed to her romanticnature as a worthy task, and as a good way of filling in the time.

　　It is an exceedingly moot point--and one which his associates ofthe servants' hall would have combated hotly--whether Albertpossessed a soul. The most one could say for certain is that helooked as if he possessed one. To one who saw his deep blue eyesand their sweet, pensive expression as they searched the middledistance he seemed like a young angel. How was the watcher to knowthat the thought behind that far-off gaze was simply a speculationas to whether the bird on the cedar tree was or was not withinrange of his catapult? Certainly Maud had no such suspicion. Sheworked hopefully day by day to rouse Albert to an appreciation ofthe nobler things of life.

　　Not but what it was tough going. Even she admitted that. Albert'ssoul did not soar readily. It refused to leap from the earth. Hisreception of the poem she was reading could scarcely have beencalled encouraging. Maud finished it in a hushed voice, and lookedpensively across the dappled water of the pool. A gentle breezestirred the water-lilies, so that they seemed to sigh.

　　"Isn't that beautiful, Albert?" she said.

　　Albert's blue eyes lit up. His lips parted eagerly,"That's the first hornet I seen this year," he said pointing.

　　Maud felt a little damped.

　　"Haven't you been listening, Albert?""Oh, yes, m'lady! Ain't he a wopper, too?""Never mind the hornet, Albert.""Very good, m'lady.""I wish you wouldn't say 'Very good, m'lady'. It's like--like--"She paused. She had been about to say that it was like a butler,but, she reflected regretfully, it was probably Albert's dearestambition to be like a butler. "It doesn't sound right. Just say'Yes'.""Yes, m'lady."Maud was not enthusiastic about the 'M'lady', but she let it go.

　　After all, she had not quite settled in her own mind what exactlyshe wished Albert's attitude towards herself to be. Broadlyspeaking, she wanted him to be as like as he could to a medievalpage, one of those silk-and-satined little treasures she had readabout in the Ingoldsby Legends. And, of course, they presumablysaid 'my lady'. And yet--she felt--not for the first time--that itis not easy, to revive the Middle Ages in these curious days. Pageslike other things, seem to have changed since then.

　　"That poem was written by a very clever man who married one of myancestresses. He ran away with her from this very castle in theseventeenth century.""Lor'", said Albert as a concession, but he was still interested nthe hornet.

　　"He was far below her in the eyes of the world, but she knew what awonderful man he was, so she didn't mind what people said about hermarrying beneath her.""Like Susan when she married the pleeceman.""Who was Susan?""Red-'eaded gel that used to be cook 'ere. Mr. Keggs says to 'er,'e says, 'You're marrying beneath you, Susan', 'e says. I 'eard'im. I was listenin' at the door. And she says to 'im, she says,'Oh, go and boil your fat 'ead', she says."This translation of a favourite romance into terms of the servants'

　　hall chilled Maud like a cold shower. She recoiled from it.

　　"Wouldn't you like to get a good education, Albert," she saidperseveringly, "and become a great poet and write wonderful poems?"Albert considered the point, and shook his head.

　　"No, m'lady."It was discouraging. But Maud was a girl of pluck. You cannot leapinto strange cabs in Piccadilly unless you have pluck. She pickedup another book from the stone seat.

　　"Read me some of this," she said, "and then tell me if it doesn'tmake you feel you want to do big things."Albert took the book cautiously. He was getting a little fed upwith all this sort of thing. True, 'er ladyship gave him chocolatesto eat during these sessions, but for all that it was too much likeschool for his taste. He regarded the open page with disfavour.

　　"Go on," said Maud, closing her eyes. "It's very beautiful."Albert began. He had a husky voice, due, it is to be feared,to precocious cigarette smoking, and his enunciation was not asgood as it might have been.

　　"Wiv' blekest morss the flower-portsWas-I mean were-crusted one and orl;Ther rusted niles fell from the knortsThat 'eld the pear to the garden-worll.

　　Ther broken sheds looked sed and stringe;Unlifted was the clinking latch;Weeded and worn their ancient thatchEr-pon ther lownely moated gringe,She only said 'Me life is dreary,'E cometh not,' she said."Albert rather liked this part. He was never happy in narrativeunless it could be sprinkled with a plentiful supply of "he said's"and "she said's." He finished with some gusto.

　　"She said - I am aweary, aweary,I would that I was dead."Maud had listened to this rendition of one of her most adored poemswith much the same feeling which a composer with an over-sensitiveear would suffer on hearing his pet opus assassinated by aschoolgirl. Albert, who was a willing lad and prepared, if suchshould be her desire, to plough his way through the entire sevenstanzas, began the second verse, but Maud gently took the book awayfrom him. Enough was sufficient.

　　"Now, wouldn't you like to be able to write a wonderful thing likethat, 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 ofenthusiasm in his blue eyes, for he was now on his favouritesubject. "You've got to 'ave meat, yer see, m'lady. It ain't likepoetry, m'lady, which no one wants.""But, Albert," cried Maud faintly. "Killing poor animals. Surelyyou wouldn't like that?"Albert's eyes glowed softly, as might an acolyte's at the sight ofthe censer.

　　"Mr. Widgeon down at the 'ome farm," he murmured reverently, "hesays, if I'm a good boy, 'e'll let me watch 'im kill a pigToosday."He gazed out over the water-lilies, his thoughts far away. Maudshuddered. She wondered if medieval pages were ever quite as earthyas this.

　　"Perhaps you had better go now, Albert. They may be needing you inthe house.""Very good, m'lady."Albert rose, not unwilling to call it a day. He was conscious ofthe need for a quiet cigarette. He was fond of Maud, but a mancan't spend all his time with the women.

　　"Pigs squeal like billy-o, m'lady!" he observed by way of adding aparting 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 byAlbert. In the occasional moods of sentimental depression whichcame to vary her normal ............