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 'Emerson, of course, and Poe; and, let me see, there must be others, but never of a Mr. Fox of Boston.'

'He is very well known, even over here. I met many in London who...' she stopped, afraid that she was sinning against his omnipotence.

The Poet muttered something, probably a doubt as to the man's existence. Lanice tried to turn the conversation from Mr. Fox's seeming obscurity to Mr. Tennyson's own wide reputation. The subject interested her host.

'I gather my verses are very well known in the States? Every day I receive baskets full of requests for autographs.' He gestured towards a very feminine and underdeveloped escritoire where Lanice saw cards with his name in its characteristic heavy scrawl spread out to dry. Suddenly she had a terrible suspicion as to how it was Mrs. Tennyson exhausted herself, while the Poet tended the rhododendrons.

'I am afraid that our admiration for you is sometimes inconvenient.'

'Oh, no,' said the Poet grudgingly.

Dinner was announced, and when once seated before the saddle of mutton the Laureate's mood mellowed. Little tapers of conversation were lit, glimmered a moment, and were quickly blown out by some gruff comment from the Poet. The blackness of the ensuing silence was palpable. Had she been affected with the mal de mer crossing the Channel? Mrs. Tennyson finally attempted. Lanice replied with more delicacy than truth in the negative. This stirred the Poet's imagination, and with some pre-