SPLASHING INTO
SOCIETY[iii]

Listen—
midi

MusicXML

Such were the sounds that filled the air as Mr. Harold Withersquash got closer to the humble home of his Selia. She was just a common girl, but no one could match her skills on the piano.

Mr. Withersquash muttered, “She will do,” and slammed the door shut.

Now Selia's mom had just finished her laundry, since it was Tuesday, and she came and opened the door in a daunting way, not in the best of moods.

[2] “What is it now?” she snapped at our hero, and sniffled in her nose, because she was a grumpy lady and both haughty and irritable.

“Ah, good morning, good morning,” lisped Mr. Withersquash in a rather sloppy way, making it clear that she had taken the ground from under him with her straightforward actions.

“Selia!” the good woman shouted, “Come on out and forget about your hair curlers, it’s just young Withersquash again.” She didn’t know any better than to be so plain, not having an education.

“Stop it, please,” shouted Mr. Withersquash, “and listen. My uncle Burt is dead!”

“Dead? No way!” the modest, plump matron replied, twisting her beautiful brooch made of braided hare fur, “What could possibly happen next?”

But now the lovely Selia pushed past her mom's elbow. She was a beautiful British girl, with hair like the kind we see in ads. Her somewhat perfect nose might hardly be noticed as turned up, probably from sleeping on her stomach, and she wore a nice white dress with embroidery, a few brooches, and some yellow stockings.

"Is your uncle dead?" she asked.

Mr. Withersquash grabbed her hand in a strong, joyful greeting and said, “Yes, and he has left me a good amount.”

“Ah, Harold!” exclaimed our young heroine, leaning closer, “are you really rich?”

“Well, not too bad,” our little gentleman replied. “I’m doing quite well.”

Selia's mom stepped away to think about this news.

“Go on!” Selia exclaimed in amazement.

“It's true as I stand here,” answered Mr. Withersquash, trying to make himself sound important.

“Well, what about it?” she said, because if Selia had a motto, it was to avoid nonsense.

[4] “Well,” he said, “I figured since we're a bit third class, why not go to some places, get into society, and have a little adventure,” and he slapped his chest confidently, even though that was just his style, as he was really just a pitiful figure like you see in the illustrations, and he worked at the 6½d bazaar, enough said.

"When should we start?" Selia asked, having quickly thought it over, as she was someone who didn't like to waste any time.

“Ah, so you’ll actually come, will you?” exclaimed the cheerful Mr. Withersquash, and he added, “Maybe we can get married later, huh?” with a suggestive wink.

“Mom, Mom!” cried Selia as she rushed in. “Mr. Withersquash and I are going out to socialize, please pack my clothes,” since Selia always spoke nicely when there were people around.

While her mom packed a bag, the young couple chatted together while Selia wrote a few 5 notes to the boys expressing her regrets, since she was a popular girl, and Mr. Withersq put the stamps on.

It was a fairly large bag where her mom packed her clothes, which had been nice in its time. She added a nightdress that was only slightly dirty since the laundry hadn’t been aired out, let alone ironed, but it still had some ribbons on it. She also tossed in a nice toothbrush with a green jelly handle, some scented soap with a flannel for her neck, and a fun book to read in bed titled "Peep of Day," as she knew it was pretty cool to read a little before sleeping.

“Take care, my child,” she said with a tear or two, but smiling at the offspring of her lions. “And maybe you’ll have changed your name when we meet again. There are plenty of fish in the sea, you know what I mean,” she added, giving a sideways glance at Mr. Withersq, whom she honestly didn’t think much of, nor did Selia at that time. But the mom believed that if [6] her girl could just get out into society, everything would be fine.

Off they went with a wave of the hand to the adventurers in our next.

“Where on earth shall we start?” said Mr. Withersq when they turned the corner. “We should probably get a taxi to begin with.”

“Absolutely,” Selia smiled, acting like it was all second nature to her, adjusting her garters. Mr. Withersq quickly dashed into the street and soon spotted a brand-new taxi. The driver was a genuinely nice guy with a curly beard.

“Now my man, take us around some nice spots,” said our hero, puffing out his cheeks and breathing, but he actually felt a bit small for not knowing his way around the town yet.

“How would you like to take a drive around [8] Kensington? It’s a nice area, my lord,” said the taxi driver.

Mr. Withersq replied, “Certainly, certainly, my good man,” and with a wink of joy at each other, he and his lovely lady Selia jumped into the car.

“What a whiz!” yelled Mr. Withersq as they rushed through the streets.

When they got to Kensington, Mr. Withersq threw the man some silver money in a very grand way, so he drove off feeling very pleased.

They took a look around.

“This is a bit slow,” said Selia, “I don't think this is really society. Where we live is pretty similar, just with fewer dogs and less shiny strollers.” Because all around them, beneath the trees, stylish nurses pushed neat strollers, closely followed by well-groomed dogs. It was certainly fashionable, but more like a daycare, and not what the two of them were looking for.

[9] “Yeah, things are a bit dull in Kensington,” replied Mr. Withersq. “You know what? We could go to a party.”

“We don’t know any,” said Selia, feeling a bit annoyed and with a stone in her shoe.

“You know my brother?” asked Mr. Withersq in a sweet tone.

“Such foolishness,” snapped Selia, “he isn't the type to know any parties!”

“Ah,” our hero said with a smile, blushing, “that’s where you’re wrong, because he cleans for the best, so there.”

“What of it?” she snapped. “Once a window cleaner, always a window cleaner, and you know well enough that guys like him don’t go to parties.”

“This is what it is,” he snorted, as he honestly didn’t like her disdain. “This is what it is. My brother tells me there’s a huge party tonight at the place he cleaned yesterday, 10 with plenty of ladies of title and knights and all that for the taking, not to mention writers and painters and that sort of thing.”

“We might as well take a chance,” Selia said, feeling a bit down. So they headed to Soho and eagerly ran into H—— Street. When they arrived, it was the house where Mr. Withersquash's brother had cleaned, and there was a piece of spotted carpet laid out on the sidewalk leading up to the door. The door opened, and they stepped inside. Selia adjusted her hat on the stairs; it was one of those types that slip and tangle your hair, which is really annoying since it was a bit too big, being a real Parisian hat left behind by one of her mom's lodgers.

Oh, what a bunch of cheerful crowds from above. Oh, what a great time for our little heroes, but Selia muttered under her breath, “This isn’t for people like us.” Even the gallant Mr. Withersquash was about to leave, until he slapped the cash in his trouser pockets with a fine rattle, 11 tucked Selia’s elbow in his, and burst into the room. The chatter stopped, and all eyes were on them.

“My name is Withersquash and this young lady is Selia,” he shouted loudly. “My uncle Burt is dead; he left me a good amount. Is that okay?”

“Oh how charming,” exclaimed the crowd in high-pitched voices, all leaning in to get a better look.

They were indeed nice. The ladies, in various colors mainly orange and green, casually sipped rich wine from some mugs while many smoked non-stop. There were arms and backs and fronts all bare, some dresses with tails, and some women wore bright and loose pants, much to Mr. Withersquashes' surprise. Several types of men were scattered around, some in evening wear, some like soldiers, and many with long hair or pale, chubby faces that looked sad—those were the artists. The walls, however, were decorated very elegantly with colorful paints, completely different from what you'd expect in genteel places. Such was the scene, and the lights were dim.

“And how much did your dead uncle leave?” kindly asked a magnificent man of foreign style.

“Oh, a few million,” replied Mr. Withersquash.

At that, the gathering felt very friendly, and everyone leaned in to shake hands. A guy in khaki pulled Selia toward a plush couch, all while staring in surprise at her white embroidered dress, and politely began to chat with her. Mr. Withers, on the other hand, realizing it was the right thing to do, after a little while embraced a few of the attractive women one by one, but now and then, he would wink playfully over their shoulders at Selia.

[13] “Ha, ha,” he thought to himself. “Money always has its say.”

Now the guy who had asked Mr. Withers how much his uncle left came up to the sofa where Selia was sitting, leaned on its cushioned arm, and smiled into her eyes.

For this, the guy in khaki frowned to the side, biting his lip since he had little or no mustache to do it with.

“You have the upper hand here!” Selia said playfully to the stranger, who responded in a thick voice, “I am Tzpcham, the times plastic avatar.”

“How nice!” Selia replied cheerfully, making him smile slightly, which gave her the impression they were connecting. Selia had always been someone who wanted to quickly learn the ropes.

“My name is Selia,” she said, letting out a soft giggle for his benefit.

But now a dazzling noble with diamond studs and slick shoes like those you see in laundromats approached, murmuring "Pleasure!" and then, gripping Selia from behind, helped her to her feet. Once again, the gramophone started up, and they began to dance to its tunes as happily as Selia could when she was on her feet, feeling this was the right thing to do. She wasn't a great dancer, but it didn't matter since there was barely enough room to do more than shuffle.

“Isn’t she charming?” said the ladies, which made Mr. Withers burn with pride. Not to be outdone, he seized the largest lady around the waist. She had a silk stocking tied around her head, which is very stylish for evening wear, and they began to dance a bit as well, with polite cheers of approval rising from everyone assembled.

“What a hassle!” yelled Mr. Withersq, but he kept going, knowing that dancing was the thing to do right now. Round and round they [15] went, and more and more couples joined in until they were all crowded together, trudging and shuffling to the music in the hot room.

When they finally stopped, out of breath and gasping, the lights dimmed a bit, and the biggest lady who had just plopped onto a chair got up and stood in the middle of the room, while the others sat on the floor or sofas and drank more wine to clear their throats.

The plump woman now unfastened her flowing cape and let it fall, feeling quite cheerful, dressed as she was in a lot of muslin—perhaps a bit droopy, but still eye-catching. Then she took off her slippers, and since she wasn't wearing any stockings, she was now barefoot. She started to dance and show off in the middle of the room, wrapped around the waist with gold material, wiggling and bobbing to the tunes from the gramophone.

[16] “Ecquisist,” shouted the crowd of beautiful people, “What a divine figure!”

“What is she doing?” growled Mr. Withersq, because to be honest, he felt a bit strange; it was like a surprise, and he hoped this wasn’t something he should imitate, not feeling too confident about the last time he washed his feet.

“Hush!” hissed a withered old woman beside him, “it’s her talent.”

Now the heavyset woman finally stopped dancing and collapsed into her seat, and a man with a prominent nose shouted, “Our new friend Withersq doesn’t seem to get it.”

“Don’t be a coward!” Selia shouted, realizing he had messed up with his comment. She recalled what her mom had taught her: that true ladies and gentlemen never reacted or seemed surprised but took everything in stride, as if it were just a dream, without saying much.

Now, while all this chaos was happening, the ladies cried out several times, “How cute!” and “Aren't they two sweet?” and “Oh, no!” like a perfect choir, which Selia and Mr. Withersq hardly knew how to react to.

The sharp-nosed guy soon stood up with a bored sniff.

“Art, my dear friend, is just a long sigh for the beautiful and the great,” he said, and bursting into tears, he left the room and was never seen again, and the ladies said he was charming too.

Selia quietly leaned over and whispered to the young person next to her on the floor, “Why did he cry? What did he do wrong?”

“Oh, don’t ask me, I’m just a mere countess and know nothing about artists and their ways,” this beauty replied with a haughty smirk.

“I see,” Selia said politely, even though she didn’t really understand, but she felt quite pleased to be on speaking terms with a countess so soon.

And now came another nice little event. 18The man Tzpcham, having downed several glasses of expensive wine, suddenly stepped forward, tossing back his hair. Then, like a magician, he pulled from his coat something that looked like a football stuck on the side of a plate, but it was all made from stone, and it was actually a statue. It was a surprise for Selia and Mr. Withersq, as they had only seen statues before that looked like people.

“It’s my latest,” shouted Tzpcham, and the bright ladies and the men gathered around it, making sounds of delight.

“All art is the round getting the best of the plain,” he said gloomily, shaking his head.

“How true!” exclaimed Selia excitedly, since she was an energetic girl and had caught on to this clever saying by now, earning whispers of admiration from everyone watching.

By this time of night, everyone at the gathering had consumed quite a few drinks, and soon after, they lay down in orderly heaps and pairs on the floor or the sofas to sleep it off. After Selia and Mr. Withersquash said their prayers, they lay down as well, with Selia resting her head gently on her bag, and she quickly fell asleep, very pleased with how the evening had gone. That was the end of the party.

In the morning, it was Selia who woke up Mr. Withersq.

“Come on, Harold,” she said, getting up from her makeshift couch, “we know some art now; let’s make a move.”

“My pet,” cried the delighted Mr. Withersq, “You called me Harold. Oh, how fondly I love your charms,” and with that, he picked up Selia’s bag, and they stepped over the countess and ran into the street. Selia was still a little red from her blush at Mr. Withersq's warm words of passion.

“What about some food?” she said to change the subject.

“Ah, now I will give you a real treat,” cried Mr. Withers, brimming with joy, “for 21 indeed I love you at last, Selia, and you shall eat the best now that Uncle Burt is gone.”

“Tell me, how are people like us supposed to know where to eat the best food?” Selia laughed, as she still had to learn how to treat a good nobleman properly.

“Now don’t be rude,” said Mr. Withersq, who wasn't going to be dismissed easily. “It was a baroness herself last night who asked me if I often went to the Mauve Loft, and she said it was fantastic, so ease up on the attitude, if you please.” So you see, even our dedicated Mr. Withersq could snap back, which isn’t surprising since he hadn’t had anything to eat.

“What is the Mauve Loft?” Selia snapped. “What kind of place is it? I know Fletchers, and Dad goes to Pim’s when he backs a good one, but what is a Loft? Tell me that!”

“It’s where you go to eat if you’re clever,” Harold replied. “You should know by now that the upper class gives their favorite restaurants names, just like they do with dogs or pubs. Haven’t you heard of the ‘Spotted Eel’ in Chelsea? Or the ‘Monkey Puzzle’ at the Scrubs? Come on, Selia, get it together, my good girl.”

They walked forward in complete silence.

When they arrived, it was above some stable areas in Piccadilly. They climbed the ladder and knocked. A completely black man let them in and bowed. They entered, and Mr. Withersq giggled as he fiddled with the cash in his trousers, which had become his lucky habit.

It was a great house painted a purple color that looked really nice. And across the mantelpiece, it was printed very big.

Lift your hearts up

which I think is from Shakespeare.

There were hundreds of waiters, all dressed in black, bustling around the room, and 23 all along the floor stood a large table like in pictures of the Last Supper. Many stylish people lounged at it, listening to the words of a man who looked a lot like those Mr. Withersq and Selia had seen the night before at the party. Meanwhile, they chewed their food. Several young ladies sat there, some soberly wearing round black glasses, while others were a bit more flamboyant with bright red lips, along with a few older ones too, all leaning on the table, smoking like chimneys.

As our couple entered, they naturally turned to stare but said nothing, not recognizing them. Unfazed, Mr. Withersq signaled a couple of black waiters to bring the menu, and they did.

He picked out a good number of the most important things, hoping he was right, and they sat down at the end of the table, eager to bond quickly.

The waiters first brought some halves of [24] fruits, like bigger lemons, on plates, but Selia hated hers and popped it under the table.

“Bring me some grilled kidneys and make it quick,” she said with great authority.

Now all this time she and Mr. Withers had been shifting in their seats and making a few friendly faces at the large group further down the table, doing things like half-smiles and looking like they were about to nod any second. Yet, all they received from that crowd gathered around the pale-looking man in the center was a cold shoulder.

“You can’t really say we’re making much of an impression here,” Selia said angrily. “You should have mentioned that your uncle Burt has passed away. Can you try to get those stuck-up people to talk, please?”

So at this, Mr. Withersq gathered his courage a bit and tapped on the table with a spoon until everyone looked at him. “Hello,” he said to them all. “My uncle Burt has passed away and left me a few million, so why not be friendly and hang out, right?”

Oh, what a freezing reception our little friends received from the glares of those ladies and men.

“I am Boom,” said the pale-looking man, gently running his fingers through his long hair. “I don’t think you’re one of us. You don’t understand.”

“O come on!” our hero exclaimed, getting a bit defensive even though Selia was stepping on his feet under the table. “We’re still new to this, I know, but we do know a countess or two. Be a good sport, old chap. Let me tell the waiter to get you a coffee if you don’t want anything stronger.”

He thought those were two safe things to say, but he was also puzzled by their looks toward him and especially toward Selia, whose clothing was completely different from theirs. Her white robe looked a bit disheveled after the rough night she had.

[26] “Ugh,” exclaimed the young women in a voice like pigeons, and the older women and the man. “What nonsense!” And they turned their faces away.

Selia let a scalding tear fall and ordered some poached eggs to boost her strength. In response, Mr. Boom and his accompanying ladies stood up quickly and stomped out very smugly, which upset the couple quite a bit.

“Hang in there, sir,” a kind black waiter said. “It’s just their way of being a poetry school.”

“Oh,” said Selia, blowing her nose, “I would love to go to a school like that, wouldn’t you, Harold, but not to their snooty one, right?”

"Yes, definitely," he replied enthusiastically. "It would surely be very useful for us to deal with such temptresses and the upper class."

“Excuse me, sir,” the waiter chimed in, now smiling like a holy angel with his sooty features. “You’ll be fine soon. It’s just the little things like eating and the right words to say that can be tricky.”

“You see, all the people who just left are really artistic types, who don’t talk to anyone but keep printing little books of their poems all the time, and they won’t sell them to anyone at all. That makes them very tricky to deal with since no one really knows what their intentions are,” he added, glancing under their plates where a lonely sixpence rested on the empty table.

“Take that, my good friend,” cried Mr. Withers, slipping a green paper bill into his uniquely colored palm.

So after they found an address in the book, they headed to a nice school to learn poetry and move up in the world.

There was a dog statue in the front yard of the poetry school, and the door was pink.

“You ask,” said Harold Withersq to Selia, his love. “Because this is a little treat for you,” so she rang the brass bell and prepared to ask the serving maids her question. An elegant older woman in a white apron came and opened the door.

“Please take us to your owner,” Selia said in a wonderfully stylish voice. “We’ve come to join the school.”

The woman led them into a white hall with two rows of small, colorful pictures painted on glass, featuring Chinese people and tigers, all bright and vibrant, hanging along the sides. Mr. Withersq puffed himself up, ready for the encounter. The old lady moved ahead of them down the white hall into a large room that resembled a chapel, adorned with gold-edged pictures, including some featuring nudes, and twenty young adults sat at desks in this hall, scribbling on slates under the watchful eye of a bald man standing on a small platform at the front. His face was mostly covered in a beard, and his mouth made you laugh when he spoke, like watching someone talk upside down. He wore expensive-looking glasses with brown rims and ear hooks that seemed quite sophisticated.

The twenty students looked up and stared.

Mr. Withersq confidently approached the teacher and placed a pound note on his desk.

“I’ve been insulted,” he exclaimed, waving his arms a bit, though not too much out of respect, “my uncle Burt is dead and has left me a fair amount. This is my girl Selia.”

[30] Selia bowed slightly and said, "Nice to meet you."

“We are experiencing life,” Mr. Withersq continued after this brief interruption. “We’ve been to a party, danced, and mingled with the elite of London, baronesses and all, yet not an hour ago I was insulted. The creature called Boon disrespected me and my Selia too, just because he’s so proud to be a poet. Make me a poet, make my lady a poet too if you can, and I’ll pay you handsomely and settle the score with them.”

"That’s enough," said the teacher. "You aren't allowed to argue before you're published, so both of you sit down and see what you can come up with."

So they both sat down and stared at each other. They were mostly similar to the people at the party, but younger guys who looked pretty rough and had unkempt hair. Some of them munched on snacks from boxes while they worked to keep their energy up.

“They look a little half-baked,” Selia said to Mr. Withersq, earning a frown from the teacher.

“Write me a good poem about the baker's horse,” he shouted from his small platform, tossing slates to Selia and Mr. Withers. Everyone present started to scribble and squeak on the slates, while the good teacher pulled hairs from his beard and smiled in a nodding way, like a grandma. Selia and Harold exchanged worried glances, unsure of how to write about baker's horses, believing until then that poetry was all rich like creamy cakes filled with love and noble romantic deaths since the schools they attended taught nothing else. So, they jotted down a few words, hoping to blend in with the crowd.

Selia wrote:—

and left it at that.

The other students were scribbling away all around her, and she started to have doubts. She probably should have been in a lower class, but the teacher guessed from the way she wore her hat that she knew more than she actually did.

“Isn’t this great?” whispered Mr. Withersq to her. “I can barely write poems, Selia, just you wait,” for he guessed he had taken the first step toward success.

[33] “How perfect, dear Harold,” she whispered a bit crazily since she had messed it up herself. “You can really shine in front of the duchesses, and maybe that will make a difference. You won’t forget me, will you, dear Harold?” Because she was, if anything, even more eager than he was to succeed and didn’t want to be left behind. Although she understood how the millions helped, she guessed there was more to it than that.

“Get your slates out, my poor students,” shouted the teacher, looking annoyed.

Two girls in dresses that looked like chair covers fainted, which was a big hit and done really well.

“That’s the emotion,” a sneaky-faced guy whispered behind his hand to Selia.

Another guy who could have been the twin of the annoying Mr. Boon cracked his slate on his desk and scattered the pieces on the floor.

[34] “Sir,” he shouted, “my poem is too beautiful for the eyes of the crowd.”

The teacher pulled at his beard harder, clearly impressed by this flashy move, and was about to award the prize to that guy when suddenly Mr. Withersq stepped up confidently, exclaiming in a loud voice, “Read mine!”

He had written:—

[35] That was the poem Mr. Withersq wrote; he thought of it because of some movies he used to watch.

The teacher gripped his head between his hands and pounded it wildly on his desk, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Ah,” he gasped as if he had jumped into cold water, “this is incredible, this is a lovely poem, oh my, oh my, it is truly amazing!”

And he cried.

The other students opened their eyes wide, listened to him, and jumped up, shouting, “Oh yes, amazing, wonderful, what force, what words, what images, what simplicity,” or something like that. Many came over and kissed Mr. Withersq, breaking into tears all around. There had never been such a scene. Selia, meanwhile, sat chewing her handkerchief, unsure of what to think, even though Mr. Withersq gave her a sly wink from time to time as if to say that her moment would come.

[36] The teacher, still banging his head on the desk, suddenly became incredibly excited and angrily rang a large bell that he pulled out from inside.

“What is it, what is it?” Selia shouted to the glory-smothered Mr. Withersq.

“God knows,” replied our hero, “but I think I’ve pulled it off.”

On the ringing of the bell, footsteps were heard approaching, and many doors opened nearby. The door flew open, and a group of enthusiastic poetry teachers from the school, followed by their students, hurried in and rushed towards Mr. Withers, who stood beside the teacher, modestly dotted with sweat and grasping Selia’s reluctant hand.

“A new poet, a new poet!” they all shouted, dancing with joy around the desk.

First came a guy with a bright red face, wearing a flannel suit and a polka-dot tie, kind of like those people you hand slips of paper to at 37 street corners about the races. He was followed by a group of tough-looking men, some resembling sailors and others looking pretty slick as they strutted in, and all of them were using foul language.

"That's the limerick class," whispered the head teacher to Selia.

An absent-minded teacher with hair over his eyes rushed in, crying: “Where’s the kid? Where is he so I can hug him?” And when the head teacher pointed to Mr. Withers, this man rushed to him and embraced him. The guys from Limerick did the same afterward because the absent teacher was a very famous Irish poet.

Then came the rhyming class, made up of very young poets. After them, a group of mostly bitter, old-fashioned ladies and a few clericals came in, writing poetry about the soul and Sundays. Next was an image class with a more exotic appearance, learning to express unusual ideas, led by a teacher from Denmark. After that, the poets who wrote sonnets entered; it’s a challenging task. They all wore blazers and white trousers because they had been to Oxford, and their hair, though curly, was nicely styled with fragrant oils, unlike the wild hair of the previous poets who had come in.

All these people came rushing in, and there were so many interesting and unusual outfits they wore—pleated pants, big puffy pants, slim pants tucked into their boots, not to mention colorful vests or no vests at all, paired with very stylish shirts that looked like women's blouses. Everyone had on or was carrying hats that I’m sure have never been seen in Dunns, the hat shop.

“This is Mr. Harold Withersq,” the head teacher announced when everyone had entered, “whom our enemies Emilian Boom and his crew have chosen to insult just because he’s a stranger. His uncle Burt has passed away and left him some money. And now he has written an amazing poem. Our brilliant sonnet teacher is currently on the phone with the Minister of Education at Buckingham Palace, asking if he can be appointed our new head poet.”

“Here here,” muttered the crowd, at which Mr. Withersq's eyes lit up and he gave Selia’s hand another firm grip.

The sonnet teacher now came from the phone.

“Well?” asked the principal. “What does the minister say?”

“Oh, he’s gone upstairs to ask His Majesty the King to make Mr. Withersquash the head poet. I told him that Mr. Withersquash’s uncle Burt has passed away, so I expect it will be fine.” By this he meant that money talks.

[40] Tinkle, tink, the phone rang. The sonnet teacher returned to it.

Everyone in the assembly was listening closely to what he said about it.

“Hello? Oh yes, it’s the school of poetry. Yes. Oh, you say the King will be really happy to have a new poet? That’s great. I understand. Goodbye!”

As he set down the headset, a rough cheer erupted from the poets filling the room. The head teacher raised his hand. Silence followed.

“His Majesty the King says he could really use a new poet,” he announced, “and I’m sure you all agree that our new friend Mr. Withersquash is perfect for the role. So, I’m officially naming him the head poet of England. Three cheers for him. Let’s go, guys!”

“Ah ah,” they screamed. “Hurrah-hurrah-hurrah! That’s amazing!” All the young lady poets and all the young male poets jumped for joy because the new poet had come from their school.

The teachers and students now formed a circle around our hero holding his Selia. The elderly maid who had opened the door for our hero entered with a golden hatbox, which she handed over with a heartfelt curtsy to the head teacher. He quickly removed the lid and pulled out an object wrapped in crinkly paper.

“Ooh!” everyone present gasped, taking in their breaths.

Off came the crinkled paper, and the bald bearded teacher pulled out a cute little crown, all made of leaves, and bending over, placed it on top of Mr. Withersquash's head.

"That is until his dear Majesty the King has time to invite him to the Palace," he said, and kissed him a lot, very sloppily, and would have kissed Selia but Mr. Withersq said not to.

[42] Everyone in the crowd applauded enthusiastically and was really excited because Mr. Withersq had written the best poem in the top class of the fanciest poetry school in Britain. As a result, he was named head poet, which is the usual process, and they select a new one every few years when the previous ones become outdated.

But Mr. Withersq took the bun by placing his little crown of leaves at Selia’s feet with a slight bow (not wanting to wear it in the street), after which he hung it on one arm, and taking Selia with the other, they walked out amid the admiring crowd, who waved them a hearty goodbye.

“Now,” said Selia, “how about some food?”

These words, though not meant to be, were overheard by two of the students from the school who had also come outside.

“Oh please, join us for a snack,” said the chubbier one. “I’m Gerald Majpottel, and this is my brother Rupert. Our dad is a lord. We’re in the satire class, we write quite a few poems, and we hang out with the very best.”

“In that case,” replied the hungry Selia, “we would be happy to come, thanks.”

So they got all four into a taxi and soon arrived at the Majpottels' house on Park Lane, a tall building with green blinds, behind [44] where numerous discreet pink housemaids moved around and peeked in, under the watchful eye of a handsome butler who was proudly fiddling with the blind tassel in the dining room window.

Chucking one of the pretty housemaids under the chin, Gerald Majpottel and his younger brother led Mr. Withersq inside and politely told them where to wash their hands.

The bathroom was at the top of the stairs and looked really sleek, with pink and blue tiles all over. The fancy bathtub was made of pink china, big enough for a swim, with some cute little quotes stamped on it to pass the time while soaking. There was also a nice mat that said “BATH” to step onto afterward.

“Oh, look,” Selia exclaimed to Mr. Withersq, who was using a pin to groom his nails while she cleaned above her wrists. They had the potential for something great, even if it came from humble origins.

“Look, dear Harold, how very modest the undergarments of our hosts are in this little cupboard. Aren't they indeed stylish?”

Mr. Withersq, fainting with jealousy, replied: “Oh Selia, they’re definitely fashionable, how lucky we are to have found them; maybe they will teach us a few tricks for success.”

In the airing cupboard by the bath were organized piles of stylish underwear. On the right side, under a small card labeled "Gerald," was a big stack of blue items made from both fine fleece and silk, including vests and other pieces. Behind these were shirts in various light and bright colors, which were quite tricky indeed. On the left was a similar pile, but with a card that said "Rupert," and all of these were pink.

“Look,” cried Selia, “they all have their names sewn on in letters, with a little crown above. Isn’t it cute? That’s because their dad is a lord, you know.”

“Ah yes,” he sighed, “how ridiculous!” since he had picked up that saying by now. “Selia!” he continued excitedly, “I have to go as soon as we finish eating and buy a bunch of things like theirs. I’ll have Withersquash embroidered on in stitched letters, looking fancier than Harold. Never before did I realize the embarrassment of having only two of everything—one to wear and one to wash—until I glanced into this amazing wardrobe!”

“Yes, you definitely should,” Selia agreed, “and why not have a nice little ‘£sd’ done underneath like they have their little crowns? That would definitely be a lovely touch, considering you’re a millionaire!”

“Selia, my own!” he exclaimed, “you’ve said it! It will be done, and you’ll get some nice clothes for your sweet idea!”

She was so happy to hear that, she rummaged a bit more in the cupboard and what did she see but two smaller stacks of clothes, all as white as snow, with a little card above them saying “Sunday.” That was the last straw for Mr. Withersq, and he slid down the banisters after her, both of them so pleased with everything, heading to the room where the Majpottels were waiting.

Five of the pink housemaids were lounging around the table, which was nice and large and full of plenty of delicious food.

“Please have a seat,” shouted Gerald, “and sit down too.” He was a well-groomed young man with sleek black hair and spoke as if he had candy in his mouth.

So they all sat down and had beef, batter, and peas to start.

“How nice your room is,” Selia said with her mouth full of food.

“Is it not?” Rupert replied modestly, then he continued: “Our colors are good, aren’t they?” At this, Selia and Mr. Withersquash both nodded quite a few times and ate some more.

The room was truly impressive, decorated in shades of crimson, scarlet, red, and vermilion, quite unusual, with purple curtains that looked like beautiful ink.

“And what do you think of our fireplace?” Rupert continued, blinking his green eyes.

It was all made of white stone shaped into dogs and monkeys and other things like that, with a big face in the middle. Sparkling glass drop decorations stood at each end of it, and a gold clock sat in the center under a shade.

"That's really nice," Selia replied politely.

“Yes, it cost quite a bit,” Rupert said.

He served them some salmon prepared with bits of egg and greens, and they ate that, followed by some ham with spicy pickles, and then a nice boiled pudding topped with jam, some fruit tart with dollops of whipped cream, and a few ice desserts (wrapped in lace paper too). They also had some luxurious fruits like apricots and grapes, washed down with various wines and beer. As soon as Selia and Mr. Withersquash finished a glass of wine or beer, a pink housemaid would come and refill it because the butler, leaning against the wall at the back, instructed her to do so. However, the Majpottel brothers hardly ate anything, which is considered very polite, and in that case, you can enjoy it later in the pantry or your bedroom.

When they had eaten all they could, they pushed back from the table and had a little chat.

“And are you glad now, dear Withers, that you became head poet?” asked Rupert in a politely tired voice.

“Oh yes, I am,” said Mr. Withersq, “because I really want to succeed.”

“And so do I,” Selia said, “even though it’s not all smooth sailing, unfortunately.”

“Come on, brother,” called Rupert Majpottel to Gerald with a kind tone. “Why don’t we help this young couple?”

“Of course,” Gerald replied, “they need to come up with more bright ideas like the poetry and become famous because that's how to stand out and succeed, even if you're not born into it.”

Mr. Withersquash was feeling a bit unwell, but he perked up and asked how to get the attention of the most stylish baronesses and such. “You see, dear sir,” he said, “I would really like to ask Miss Selia to be Mrs. W., but I can’t really do that until I know where I stand, can I? Right?”

Selia was blushing because she had come to love Harold by now and really imagined herself as his wife, even though this was the first time he had mentioned it.

“It’s fine for you,” replied Rupert, “since you've come into a good amount of money and are now the leading poet, although [51] not exactly suitable in some ways, if I can say so without offense.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Withersq. “What you mean is that Selia should have her moment of success too, right?”

“Well, yes,” said the brothers, “it’s a tough world for ladies if they aren’t quite fitting in, and you see when a woman is a wife, she has to know all the ins and outs of the world, otherwise she looks a bit foolish, doesn’t she? And people don’t come to see her, you know, which is pretty boring.”

“Give us a few helpful tips,” said Selia, for she wasn’t so proud that she wasn’t willing to try and do even better.

"Well, to start, you need to get some clothes, like fur coats, nice evening outfits, and some stylish narrow shoes," Rupert said thoughtfully. "If you visit a good store, the ladies there will let you know what you should pick up."

[52] “Of course!” she said happily, “Harold, you’re going to buy me all of those things, plus some nice hats and a gold-handled umbrella.”

“Absolutely, absolutely,” replied the good Mr. Withersq.

“Then you might want to use that booming voice we have,” Gerald continued, “and try to look a little annoyed, you know? But that’s not everything; you really need to have some sort of upper-class vibe, and then the baronesses will notice and remember you, which is the main idea.”

“Sure thing,” Selia replied with a hiccup from the stout she had drunk, “but what should I do? I’m just a simple girl and don’t know much.”

“What do you think about that?” Mr. Withersq asked the brothers while scratching his nose, “I’m not sure what to recommend myself.”

“Do you sing?” Gerald asked.

“No,” said Selia flatly.

[53] “Can’t you do anything other than play the piano?” asked Mr. Withersq.

“Oh! The piano! Never let anyone know you can play that!” warned Gerald. “That’s such a low thing to do. The banjo or the cello if you want, but not the awful piano!”

“Let’s think,” said Mr. Withersq. “What would be the best thing for her to do?”

“Well, let’s think about this,” the Majpottel brothers agreed, leaning back in their chairs. “There’s politics, but it would take too long for her to get into the cabinet, and she might never make it at all. She can’t really go into science since she doesn’t know anything about it. She can’t become a painter or even a dressmaker because she doesn’t know how to dress herself. I really don’t know what she can do.”

“Oh no, oh no!” the poor girl cried as she collapsed into Mr. Withersquash's arms for comfort; all her pride had vanished by now.

“It’s a shame she’s not into sports,” muttered Rupert to himself, as he had grown fond of his humble friend and couldn’t stand to see her cry.

“What did you say?” shrieked Selia, darting away from Mr. Withersquash’s embrace like a snake. “A sporty girl? Me? Who says I’m not? Haven't I won the challenge cup for the Hoxton tennis club three years in a row? Haven't I been the best roller skater they’ve ever seen at Holland Park? You can't say I’m not sporty!”

“Tennis?” shouted Gerald and Rupert at the same time, until one of the absent housemaids peeked her head around the door, thinking she was needed.

“Yeah,” shouted Selia, “and why not?”

“Yay! Yay!” the two noble brothers cheered. “That’s a great girl! You’ll be the standout of the season if your talent” [55] and then they kept chatting away, making plans for Selia to showcase her talents to the fashionable world, which would allow Mr. Withersq to marry her without her being ignored as a married woman.

It was finally decided that the brothers would organize her first appearance.

“Alright,” said Selia, “thank you. You can count on me to do my best. Come on, Harold, we need to head to the shops.”

“Goodbye, dear friends,” said Gerald, standing up gracefully to lead them to the door. “Thank you for coming. Make sure to practice your sports now, Miss Selia, and get some appropriate attire for the big day, and we'll show them what you're made of.”

“Very good,” said Selia at the door, “and you’ll see if we don’t make a splash in society with a bang.” With these words, she and Mr. Withersq went off, and that’s all that happened there.

They quickly met up on Bond Street. A tall man, looking like a sergeant, stood seriously at the entrance of the shop Mr. Withersq was taking his love to. When he noticed them stopping at the door, he pretended to be unlocking a car. He offered Selia his arm as if she were getting out of her car and then led her to the door as if she were someone important, even though she had just come on foot.

Once inside, a distinguished figure in evening attire approached gracefully, hands together, and asked, “What can I do for you?” with a polite bow.

Mr. Withersq said very loudly, “Underthings,” so this gentleman led them through beautiful showrooms filled with expensive goods until they reached that part.

[57] A young woman with reddish hair, dressed in flowing black satin and beads, got up from a couch with a pleasant smile and asked, “What do you need?” as Mr. Withersq instructed her. She then nimbly climbed a few ladders and threw down boxes until he selected the type of undergarments he wanted from the options available. There were garments made of satin, silk, and fleece, all very elegant, but Mr. Withersq chose a peech pink one because he thought it was quite fashionable and unique.

He then instructed for his name and £sd to be embroidered in a small ring on all of these and, after paying her a good sum of money, went to another room.

“Come on, Selia,” he shouted, “we need to hurry and get ready.”

And so with a hearty slap on the back, he led her toward the back part of the shop.

“Show me some shoes and boots of the best,” he said with a smile, looking fondly at the lady at the [58] boots. “This is me and my young lady Selia. We’re going to go out into society and need to dress appropriately, as you surely know.”

So he bought a yellow pair with buttons, a couple of black pairs of shoes, some fuzzy white ones, and some red house shoes. Selia had some shiny black shoes with diamond buckles, pale boots, openwork boots up the sides, high shiny boots, fur boots for the bedroom, and satin slippers in every hue, along with matching stockings and silk all the way up, which felt really nice every time.

Then Mr. Withersq bought black coats for both day and night, plaid trousers for daytime, and smooth black ones for nighttime, as well as a sport suit with whiskers that smelled, along with fawn and black top hats and a night hat that popped up and down with a snap.

Selia then received

and all of these had their own private box to sit in and a lid that fit perfectly. As for the robes that her beloved Harold spread out for her, no words could express it because there was an elegant lady all to themselves who taught them what to buy and when, which is the hardest thing to know. The items piled up like greased lightning until everyone in the shop left their work, as did all the people and the boys who operated the elevators, all of them following and staring to see such a wealthy man prepare his fate. He topped it all off by ordering gloves by the boxful, a fan as curly as an ostrich, and whisper-soft lingerie for his sweetheart, which she went into a small private area to choose for herself.

And they walked out of that store all dressed up in brand new things, scuffing their shoes on the floor to dull the shine, carrying packages while everyone stared at them, leaving behind boxes and boxes full of stuff to come from Carter Pattisen.

“Taxi, sir?” asked the sergeant-looking man at the door, bowing lower than before.

“Yes,” grunted Mr. Withersq as the strings of his parcels pinched his fingers a bit and he was really tired.

A taxi pulled up to the edge of the path, and the man opened the door. Selia hopped in and sank down into its interior.

“Where to?” asked the driver, which made Mr. Withersq think twice before he spoke this time.

Seeing his distress, the sergeant-looking man whispered in his ear as a suggestion: “Why not the Grand Palace, my good sir? It’s very central.”

So Mr. Withersq finally got to the point and told the taxi driver to head to the Grand Palace, which he did.

When they arrived, Mr. Withersq walked into the hall with a new idea.

“Trot out the boss!” he shouted to the trembling girl at the glass desk, and she hurried off to get him.

When he arrived, he was overweight and flushed.

“I am the manager,” he said.

“So?” said Mr. Withersq, knowing it would make him feel small. “Well, I am Mr. Withersq. My Uncle Burt left me many millions. I have my lady Selia with me. I am the Head Poet of the Land, and I wish to rent your second and third floors entirely for myself—one for me and one for her, as only the best will do for us.”

“You want two whole floors?” spat the angry manager.

“I do,” said Mr. Withersq.

“But what about those who are inside the [62] floors?” said the manager, who was now very scared.

“Tell them I will pay their bills,” replied Mr. Withersq, “and I won’t ask any questions if they leave.”

The red man turned pale and ran off to carry out Mr. Withersquash's request, while Mr. Withersquash went to fetch Celia. The band started playing in the hall among the plants and sweet flowers, and the girl at the desk in the glass booth bowed as the couple entered proudly and headed up the stairs to their rooms. Those who had been in the rooms before hurried down the back stairs, but it didn’t bother them since they knew they had made a good deal.

After they had gone to their two floors and settled in and called for all their close friends, Selia shouted down the stairs to her Harold: “Hey, Squashy dear, let’s go for a ride on a horse.”

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Withersq, “that is a 63very clever idea; I’m surprised we didn’t think of it sooner.”

So he rang the bell that was sitting on a small table conveniently placed in the hallway, and a sweet little boy with three rows of shiny buttons all over his coat came running to answer it.

“Go out and buy me some pants,” ordered Mr. Withersq, “my dear little lad. And please get me two whips and a riding skirt for the lady. Hurry back, and you can keep the change.”

And he gave him a bag filled with money.

Off went the little guy and quickly came back with boxes from a nearby shop. He had thoughtfully brought everything they needed—riding boots, hats, whips, and gloves for two, along with a pair of breeches each: shaggy ones for Mr. Withersq and black ones for Selia, plus a coat and skirt combo to keep her covered. They changed into these outfits and tossed the remaining money to the boy [64] before heading out to rent two horses for a ride in the park to build up an appetite for tea after all they had eaten at the Majpottels. The ride bumped them around a bit since the only riding they had done before was at fairs, but they persevered and remained determined.

Just as they were leaving the park to head home, a policeman stopped them.

“Are you about to become Mr. Withersquash?” he asked.

“Yes,” said our hero confidently, knowing he had done nothing wrong, “what about it?”

“A message just came from the Palace that his dear Majesty the King would like you to join him for tea and see him, as he wants to find out what kind of new poet he has.”

“Oh, fine,” said Mr. Withersq, “is it okay if we go like this, and do you think I can bring Selia along as well?”

“I expect it will be fine,” said the 65 policeman. “His Majesty is very kind and pleasant; I don’t think he would mind much.”

So they rode their horses down to the Palace, tied the reins to the twisted rails in front of it, and the guards in their fluffy hats nodded to them. They walked into the front yard, approached the door, and then went inside, knowing they were expected.

Oh, what a moment for Mr. Withersq and his Selia to finally step on that coveted ground.

“Little did I think when we set out that we would go this far or do so well,” Mr. Withersq said quietly out of respect as they walked inside. Just then, a junior admiral approached them confidently.

“Have a good day, dear Mr. Withersq,” he said with a grin.

“Good day indeed,” he replied. “Let me introduce Selia. Shake hands, Selia!” And she did.

“Nice to meet you,” said the admiral who [66] was dressed in wool and gold braid. He then added, “Maybe you’d like to freshen up a bit before heading in for tea?”

“If it’s not bothering you,” said Selia, who looked a bit worn out after the horse.

“Definitely not,” said the admiral kindly. “We have a special place for that kind of thing. When visitors come in unexpectedly like you have, they usually want a quick wash and clean-up by the time they get here.”

“Yes, traveling does make one so fussy, doesn’t it?” Selia exclaimed in a loud tone, which made the admiral open his eyes wide in admiration, as he had thought she would be quite ordinary and was relieved to discover that she was not.

“Absolutely,” he agreed, adding, “and I’ve sent a message to the guards at the gate to make sure they give your horses some water and straw for their evening meal, so you don’t need to worry about them.”

[67] “Oh, they’re not ours, but thanks anyway,” said Mr. Withersq. “Still, you might as well send a drink out to them if you don’t mind. Thanks.”

The admiral led them to the restroom and handed them over to the staff there. It was a huge hall filled with shaving chairs and barbers in silk jackets who quickly wrapped Mr. Withersq in cloths and gave him a good shave. Selia went to a marble table where one woman tidied her hair nicely, another applied powder and all the other essentials, and a third polished her nails elegantly with pink polish and wiped her boots with velvet. Once they were both looking sharp, they returned to the admiral, who was waiting for them. He inspected them and noted that there was no hair on Mr. Withersq's coat and everything was just right.

On he led them down corridor after corridor and through room after room, letting them take a look at where the top MPs were brainstorming some new laws that both found really interesting. In the next room, they caught a glimpse of several stern-looking generals with impressive mustaches who were training with swords and guns, staying sharp until the next war, because if they don’t, they become unfit and have to step down.

And next to them in another room were the sea lords, some of whom waved happily to the leader of our small group, but they weren’t very busy since their swimming practice was over for the day, and they had the afternoon off, so they passed the time with amazing jigsaw puzzles, checkers, chess, and other games, all cozy in their nice room.

At last, they arrived at a grand, high hallway lined with flags from conquered 69 countries and a stuffed lion in a glass case on the left, just before a door—the door to the room where the King and Queen were. Both Selia and Harold started to tremble a bit, because above all, they wanted to make a good impression.

“Have a heart,” the admiral said kindly. “They won’t hurt you, and there’s no fuss meant to make you feel small, as the King knows it’s a bit strange for a poet like you to visit him in his Palace for the first time.”

At that, he gave a respectful tap on the door and left.

They walked in quietly into a large room with a slippery floor, and in the center there was a table piled high with flowers, set for about ten people and overflowing with delicious foods. At this table sat the King, and her dear Majesty the Queen was just pouring tea. They had pushed their thrones back to feel more at home and sat on simple chairs, but unfortunately, the Princess and the Princes weren’t there, so they were probably off on some business.

“I am Mr. Withersq,” said our hero as he entered, holding Selia's hand and making a polite bow. “And this is my lady Selia. We were out riding and just found out you wanted us, so we came right over.”

"That's okay," said the King, getting up to move two more chairs to the table for them. "We're really happy to see you. Sorry that we started without you, but we didn't know if you would make it in time and we were desperate for a cup of tea."

“Please have a seat,” said the Queen kindly, since she thought they wouldn’t dare to sit down without being asked.

Now Selia found her voice and said, “It’s so kind of you to let me join you. It will really help me out, and I’ve always wanted to see you, never imagining I would when my mom and I used to go to the movies together and see you on the Pathe.”

“Really now?” said the Queen, handing down two more cups of tea for them. “I’m very pleased to finally see you. What’s this I hear about your young man doing so well in poetry?”

So Selia explained everything about how he made a decent amount of money and how they aimed to improve their lives, and how Emilyon Boom had looked down on them, and how Mr. Withersq won the award for best poet, and how if she could also succeed, they hoped to get married soon. The Queen listened attentively and promised that Emilyon Boom would be punished and wouldn’t be allowed to write poetry anymore. Meanwhile, Selia was also enjoying plenty to eat.

Meantime, the King and Mr. Withers were having a nice chat.

[72] “Listen, my dear,” said the King to the Queen, “my Head Poet tells me that his young lady wants to make a splash and show the world what she can do in terms of entertainment. Don’t you think we should go see her? It would help if the people know we’re going to be there, right? I’ve really taken a liking to these young people and would love to see them happily married.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the Queen, kindly patting Selia’s hand for a moment so that was settled. After a bit, they got up to leave and happily remembered to walk out through the door backwards. The King waved his hand kindly as they did so to say goodbye, but the Queen was busy ringing the bell for a maid to clean up.

“I hope he thought I was okay as a poet,” Mr. Withersq said outside. “I guess I’ll probably have to drop by and see him often if he keeps me on.”

Just then, the King shouted, "Hey!" from inside the room, so they glanced in again to see what was going on.

“Oh, I say! I completely forgot your medal,” he said, laughing quite a bit. “Here you go, and blessings on you.” It was a lovely little medal shaped like tiny gold leaves, which is what the Head Poet wears so that people recognize him, even though you don’t often see him. So they bowed again, waved goodbye, and made their way back along all the passages, out into the yard where the horses were still waiting, looking a bit tired of the long wait. As they approached the horses, something great happened: a photographer from the newspapers came up and took their pictures, which is truly a sign of fame.

“What luck!” cried Selia happily as they rode [74] away. “It was definitely a good idea to go to the poetry school, wasn’t it? Look at how well you’ve done!”

“Yes, I think we’re doing okay,” he replied, for he had truly learned by now that it’s only the first step that hurts.

When they returned to the hotel, a decent crowd was gathered at the entrance and scattered throughout the grand hall. Upon the arrival of our little hero, their chatter quieted to a respectful murmur. Bowing politely to the left and right, Harold Withersq and his Selia stepped inside, but Selia hoped all the fuss was directed at her.

“Toodleoo,” she told Harold, “I’m going to get my nails done at a place.”

“Done?” she snapped. “How done?”

“At a high price,” Selia said simply, and with a delighted smile, he pulled out a lot of cash and stuffed the bills into her bag, which looked like a little crocodile with a head, tail, and paws but was small and lined with fabric. Then Mr. Withersq waved her off, and she [76] left, getting a bit mixed up in the roundabout at the door that was meant to be just for fun, but she got stuck.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, taking off his new butter-colored gloves like banana peels, just like he had seen heroes do in the movies. “What can I do for you?” He had picked this up in stores back in the day, so it wasn’t very impressive.

Now these new people, mostly men in practical suits and white-collared shirts wearing reading glasses before their sharp eyes, along with a few ladies in neat outfits, approached. They were all from newspapers because Harold Withersq's reputation had spread, and he was the hot topic of the moment. As a result, the newspapers jumped at the opportunity to get a quote from him.

As the chatter died down, Mr. Withers made a gesture of modesty and tried to slip away, but was interrupted by a cheerful guy with rosy cheeks who asked him if he would write a little something for his paper, 77, and another skinny guy who asked him when he was born, along with a lady who insisted that he tell her about love for the ladies' page.

All excited, Mr. Withersq, who never missed an opportunity, started to tell them, completely honest, when a sudden idea struck him. He held his forehead for a moment, thinking seriously, then pushed them aside and rushed into the nearby glass telephone booth.

“Hello,” he yelled to the unseen voice of the girl on the wires, “get me the editor of the Daily Pull,” and so he stood there waiting for it.

The gathered crowd inhaled anxiously because this was a daring move. The girl got Mr. Withersq on after he had fidgeted a bit from the heat in the glassy box and he was sweating a lot.

“This is Mr. Withersq,” he was heard to say. Everyone was stunned that he had the nerve to call that prominent editor on the phone. The [78] voice of our hero remained very proud, for who was he to bow to editors now:

“You’ve heard of me. My uncle Burt passed away, leaving behind his possessions, and you know how I stepped into the spotlight and became part of high society. I’ve become the Head Poet. Some people have come to pick my brain for their articles, so I thought I’d call you instead and offer to write a friendly little piece for the front page about how I’ve made my way in the world.”

“Alright then,” he chuckled in response to the editor's unheard words, “it’s definitely true that everyone wants to know how to get there, but only a few actually make it. I’ll do my best for the public.” Shoving the earpiece aside, he stepped out of the booth and strolled up to his apartment, humming a little tune and leaving the throng below.

Did he hesitate? No one will ever know, but he quickly recovered, adjusted his new mauve cuffs, sat down, and started.

79 And when Selia came back, she stumbled into his room where he was sitting in a bandana and a bathrobe at a desk with a pen in hand and some ink on his nose.

“Look,” she exclaimed, taking off her gloves and showing off her newly polished nails that sparkled like jewels, “see, Harold, what they've done for me!”

“Ugh,” he exclaimed, wiping his last page, yet glanced at her because he truly loved her, Mr. Withersq did, and he had all the relaxed charm of a great man. “What a lovely sight,” he continued, giving her a thorough once-over. She definitely looked better in a dress with red accents and those long, weird-looking, slippery shoes, but the outfit and the silk stockings were top-notch with ventilation on the sides, and the crocodile bag and one of those little hats that looked like a chicken. When she took it off, it revealed a delicious mass of curly hair, and her makeup was just right for a lady. Selia looked absolutely stunning.

“Kiss me then,” Harold said to get it over with, during which she wet a new handkerchief and wiped the ink off his nose.

“If I may say so, you look pretty smart right now,” he said. “I think you’ll be a credit to me, and your time will come, no doubt.”

“Ah, I wish it could be,” she said, tearfully. “Because honestly, the ladies aren’t very kind to me when you’re not around, and I’ve had many painful moments dealing with that arrogant sideways glance they give, coming from some who are no better than me but are safely married. At least that's how I see it.”

“Shh shh,” cried the kind Mr. Withersq. “Everything will be fine, and I will marry you as soon as I can afford it without making a social mistake. In the meantime, I’m writing for newspapers.”

Selia now clapped her hands, knowing better than anyone how much the newspapers could spread stories about those who knew how to tackle challenges head-on. Feeling a bit out of it, as she noticed him glancing at the inkpot again, she quietly left the room and went up to her bedroom to take a nap under the quilt, dreaming of the bright days ahead.

When she woke up again, it was morning. She had been so tired from everything that had happened and had slept for two full days. Underneath her lace-draped window, she heard a bunch of newsboys calling out a name she thought she recognized, so she quickly got out of bed and leaned out to look at the street. Hanging out there, she saw, with what excitement and pride written clearly on every placard held up by the newsboys, these words:

HOW I DID IT:
By H. Withersquash
(Head Poet)

Now Selia was truly filled with pride, and she shed a tear onto the windowsill, thinking about how deeply she loved him and how far she had to rise before she would be worthy of sitting beside him as his wife and partner. So she crossed her little fingers and wished hard that she could soon get a boost from her good friends the Majpottels. After that, she slipped out of her clothes and had a nice wash in the basin, unaware that nature taught her it was best to do this every day. While doing her hair, she practiced speaking in her new voice and walking comfortably in her new thin shoes. Finally, with a last dab of powder from a pretty little glass pot on her dresser, she bounced down to breakfast, full of energy and determined to win.

And all over London, newsboys shouted about the fame of Mr. Withersquash.

Mr. Withersq was already digging into the last of his second egg with a rather annoyed expression, as he really preferred duck eggs because they were more filling, when she walked into their private dining room, where a chef was standing at the door, sent by the hotel manager to oversee their meal.

“Hello, dear,” he exclaimed, standing up and shaking off the frown from his face, as he had learned to do for ladies by now. “We have a special surprise for today.” He nodded to the chef to bring Selia her breakfast, which the good man in the white hat did before leaving the room.

“Oh Harold, what is it?” she exclaimed, adjusting her new brown dress. “Is it a different kind of party?”

[84] “Well, not really,” said Mr. Withersq, continuing with his egg, “it’s going to trial.”

“Oh! How delicious,” said Selia happily, “is it a murder?”

“No,” said Mr. Withersq, “it’s much better, it’s a divorce; murders are a bit tacky. But the best stories are about divorces, and if I hadn’t bought a good half of the Daily Pull this morning before you woke up and kept the editor on my side, I don’t think we would have even made it in.”

“Oh, so now you have a newspaper,” she said playfully.

“Yeah,” Mr. Withers said briskly, “and as it stands, we have seats in the front.”

Truly pleased by this thoughtful and lucky idea, Selia eagerly finished her meal, after which they got into a taxi and headed to the courthouse.

It was a dark, menacing place, somewhat square. A crowd of poor people pushed around outside. 85The photos of Selia and her Harold were taken as they got out of the taxi to enter. Selia tensed up a bit, but Harold didn’t. For a moment, he worried they might be mistaken for the guilty party, but that wasn’t the case; it was just his fame.

Inside was a large dark hall that felt like a church, with the Ten Commandments framed at the top. In the center sat a judge dressed in scarlet and ermine with a white wig, perched on an ornate chair. On one side were the lawyers, lined up with their paperwork, all lean and busy, while on the other side sat the jurors in a pew, all plump and doing nothing but sitting.

A buzz went through the crowd as our heroes walked in and were guided by a beadle to the front row, where the judge pounded his small gavel on the desk of his throne and shouted “Order!” very sternly, as everyone present was twisting and leaning to get a better look at our duo, especially the ladies, many of whom were sitting around with their lunch baskets.

86 “This isn’t a poetry class,” the judge said to the side, prompting a laugh, so Mr. Withersq immediately recognized this must be the famous Judge Crop, known for his wit. So they both sat down and got comfortable.

The noise faded away, and silence fell as a door on the side opened. Amid murmurs of sympathy, the people involved in the divorce were brought in, looking pale and sadly clanking the handcuffs on their wrists, with the injured husband leading the way. There were three in total: the woman and the villain with a submissive expression following behind, and the woman was dressed very soberly in a black coat and skirt, which suited her situation.

A police officer lined them up in front of the judge, and the three of them stood silent while the lawyers started to get up one by one, mumbling and shuffling their papers, and bowing occasionally to the judge, who appeared to be dozing off, though he opened an eye now and then.

[87] Selia was a bit annoyed because she thought it was boring, it was really hot, and they were so cramped, so she leaned back a bit against her Harold and tried to listen.

“Ha,” exclaimed the Judge, suddenly awake, “and what do you have to say for yourself?” He glared at the villain, causing the Wife to start sobbing, which greatly affected the audience. But poor Selia was so sleepy from the stuffiness that she dozed off without hearing more and only woke just in time to hear the worst. The Villain and Wife had expressed their regrets, the jurors had discussed the situation, and the Judge was presiding over them, wearing a black cap on his head.

In slow and serious words, he laid out his thoughts, and in the end, he sentenced both the Wife and the Villain to six months in prison to learn to change their ways. The Husband rubbed his hands in delight, while the wicked Wife and the terrible Villain left to face their unfortunate fate. The meeting ended, and some people commented that it hadn't been very entertaining. But Harold claimed it was a good show since the Judge had made four jokes. They pushed their way through the crowd to the waiting taxi and quietly headed home, as Harold had to write more that day about how to make a splash in society for the front page of his newspaper.

He went to his room right after they entered, leaving Selia alone, so she sat on her bed and felt bored. The sound of the lunch bell was nice, but she didn’t talk to Mr. Withersq during the meal because she was in a bad mood, and he didn’t say anything either because he was lost in thought.

Lunch finished, he called her over to his side again.

“Alas, alas how deeply I love your charms,” he said in his usual gentle tone.

“Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t,” she snapped, stiffening as he tried to pull her closer. “Still, it would look better if you paid more attention to me instead of acting all important with your newspaper writing, knowing full well you should be writing poems and probably annoying the King, since he must have made you Head Poet for a reason. Unless you see me as nothing more than a burden as a humble girl and want me to go back to my mom.”

At this, he first brushed the cobwebs from his forehead in surprise because he hadn't considered it from this perspective. Then, laughing heartily—since he was no bad-tempered brute—Withersq drew her affectionately to his knee and comforted her with gentle strokes. He once again promised that everything would be okay and assured her that the Majpottels had her situation under control and would know the right moment to act.

“Oh, don’t tell me,” she said, shifting a bit to avoid upsetting him, “the Majpottels are coming for me at three.”

“Coming?” he snapped. “And why may I ask?”

“Ah, that’s a secret,” she said playfully, feeling [91] now that she had gotten her revenge, and she teasingly rubbed his ears until they were redder than ever.

“Remember, you belong to me,” he insisted, sounding quite serious because his love was genuine. “I trust you.”

“Not at all,” she replied, and changed the subject.

Mr. Withersq now dropped her on the floor and stood up, reaching for his gloves and hat, as he had become quite accustomed to the finer things in life now.

“Come here, sweet,” he called, having found them on a green silk sofa by the window. “I have something to show you.”

So he guided her down the red-carpeted stairs toward the hotel entrance, and the uniformed man very humbly handled the revolving doors for them.

"Look!" he cried.

Oh, what a treat for Selia! Pulled up to the footpath was a blue motor car, driven by a man in a blue coat, and on the door was painted £sd, just like Mr. Withersq had put on all his underwear.

“It’s ours,” he said proudly, so they stepped inside, the man shut the door, and drove to the park.

Hardly had they arrived when a really nice thing happened. As they glided along the smooth path between the trees, looking stylish and bored, who should they run into but the Countess who had been at the party the first night they shocked everyone. So they stopped. The Countess, driving a sleek white car and handling it herself, also stopped, seeming to recognize them, and they had a brief conversation.

“Good morning, I’m the Countess. You might not remember me,” she said, keeping a serious expression and not allowing a smile. Selia, who had been about to smile, caught herself just in time and maintained her bored look, which she now understood was the right attitude when meeting a friend.

“Yeah” she said slowly as if she was too tired, yet in her heart determined to push forward now or never, “you were so nice to us.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” the smart lady replied with a practiced smile. “I’d be more than happy to have you over for tea tomorrow. I don’t think my husband will mind.”

“Of course we will, and thank you,” said Mr. Withersq, as if he hadn’t heard that last part.

“Is that your dog?” asked Selia, eager to keep the conversation going since she enjoyed being seen chatting in the Park, especially with a Countess.

“Yes, that’s Lipstick, my poodle,” the beauty said with a yawn, but it wasn’t really a poodle; it was more like a white dachshund with rough hair and very shiny eyes.

“How sweet he is,” lisped Selia.

[94] “Isn’t he?” replied their new friend. “And how lovely is your new car!”

“Yes,” said Selia, “it’s not so bad,” and her heart secretly swelled with pride, “well, we should get going now. Gooby.”

“Gooby,” replied the Countess, and she pulled away, leaving them very pleased with how well things were going.

When they had walked the whole gravel path, crossed the bridge by the Serpentine, and made their way up to Bayswater and then back, having managed to make a few horses with riders dance on their back legs—which is why a lot of people drive cars in the Park since it’s a kind of sport—Selia spoke again.

“It’s a really nice car,” she said, a bit confused, “and it runs as smooth as butter. But now I need to get back, dear Harold.”

Scowling at her, Mr. Withersq poked his head out of the side door and told the man to go back to the hotel, which he did, making 95 that popping noise all down Piccadilly. When they reached the door, Mr. Withersq got out, helped Selia down, tipped his hat, and waited for her to enter the hotel.

Dearly wanting to tease his male curiosity, she lingered for a while until, driven mad by her mystery, he said very sternly.

“Don’t play around with a good man’s feelings.”

“Hey!” she said, “trifle? I don't mess around; I do my part as best as I can so everything turns out okay. And if you had asked me why I'm stepping back, I would’ve told you, but now wild horses couldn't drag it out of me because of your bad heart.”

With a carefree laugh, she burst through the doors and was instantly surrounded by the Majpottels, who were wearing their pink and blue shirts, light gray suits, and holding straw hats, all grinning at her with long, sad smiles. They walked together along the hall and back, chatting (this [96] was meant to help Selia practice her social skills) before sitting for a while in green-painted basket chairs near the palms. It was a very hot day, and both brothers were a bit red and sweaty, but their noble upbringing prevented them from wiping their foreheads and necks, as that would be considered uncouth.

“What will you drink?” Gerald asked politely to Selia.

“What is smart?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, you should definitely have a cocktail,” he replied, “since that’s what all the ladies are drinking right now.” So he ordered one, but Selia made a mistake and put the cherry at the bottom of the little round glass into her mouth, which meant she had to spit out the pit. Rupert frowned at her a bit for this, and she noticed that the stylish brothers had left their cherries untouched. She made a note of this for the future.

“You’ll want to change, right?” now whispered Gerald, who looked quite lively. Selia took the hint and went up to her [97] apartment, not knowing at all what she should wear out of the many outfits hidden in the drawers there.

To her surprise, as she entered the room, a small, round woman in black with black velvet and some white frills in her hair stood up from a seat by the window.

“I’m the new maid, Madame,” this person said with a polite bow, “my name is Scrogg. What would you like to wear?”

This vision impressed our heroine so much that she hardly knew what to say for a moment. Then, laughing to herself as she realized what it was and thought about all that it meant to be a rich man’s favorite, she turned away coldly and whispered something to the new maid, who immediately went to the right drawer and took out what was needed.

Selia was a shy girl and wasn’t used to getting undressed in front of people, but she knew it had to happen. Gathering her [98] courage, she let herself be stripped of her clothes and dressed again in the purest white, perfect for her secret mission.

“A simpler way to style the hair?” suggested Scrogg, who was very clever. Selia nodded, agreeing that this was better.

Fresh and smelling slightly of something Scrogg had sprinkled on her before leaving, Selia came down again to the waiting Majpottels, who sat with their chins resting on sticks, leaving Scrogg to tidy up, which is mainly what a maid is for and saves a lot of time.

In her heart, Selia wasn't entirely sure whether Scrogg was a creation of the Majpottels' minds or just a charming gesture from her beloved Harold, so she kept quiet. In reality, it was Gerald who had arranged it, knowing she needed a woman's touch, and he had obtained Scrogg at great expense from a Lord, because he too, in his own way, would stop at nothing.

It was pretty late—almost eight—when Selia came back, and although she knew she hadn't done anything wrong, she felt a bit sneaky as she quickly went up the hotel stairs, watched by the usual group of people who hung around to catch a glimpse of her and Harold in the hotel lounge. She hurried into the dining area. No one was there. So she went up to her room where Scrogg was eating a sandwich, and she took off her white dress, which was now a bit messed up. Scrogg playfully fluffed her hair and helped her into an evening gown, making her tuck her vest straps under her arms and show a lot more skin than she felt comfortable with, but Scrogg insisted it had to be that way. Scrogg then shared a few things that really opened her eyes. But Selia pretended not to hear, even though it actually registered with her.

After looking in the mirror, she felt pleased with herself; she looked quite like a lady now with her waved hair and sleek black gown, which had lace streamers hanging from it, leaving her neck, chest, and half her back bare. She glided out of the room after Scrogg told her that an evening walk should be much more slinky. Upon re-entering the dining room, she found the white-hatted chef alone, even though the table was set.

“Where is Mr. Withers?” she asked.

“I’m afraid he’s not feeling well,” the chief replied. “He came in a little while ago, looking pale, and then left again.”

Like a hen robbed of her chicks, Selia rushed to Harold's room. There, spread out on the huge four-poster bed, lay her devastated Harold, and the blinds were shut.

101 Sneaking in, “What is it, what is it?” she exclaimed, “Have you written too much?”

“It’s not that,” came the sad voice of our hero from the bed, “it’s worse. I’m a ruined man.”

“Oh, Harold!” Selia exclaimed in distress.

A deep sigh escaped from his chest. They both cried together for a while.

“Come,” Selia finally said. “I command you to tell me what it is. Are you secretly married?”

“No, maybe not that bad, because it can be fixed.”

“Are you going to jail? Are you crazy?”

“No, no,” the miserable man whined. “I can’t tell you.”

“Don't say the money is gone!”

“Ah no,” he exclaimed suddenly, sitting up at the thought, “ah no! I think we might still win, but I’m in a tough spot.”

And so he cried as he shared his sad story.

[102] During the time she had been away that day, who should Harold run into but the head poet of the limerick class from the school of poetry, and they decided to grab a quick drink together. As they started chatting, like men often do, they began sharing the latest stories, some of which weren’t very pleasant, and mostly what Harold had brought back from the lower world. He figured the limerick poet wouldn’t mind, since poets usually appreciate tales from the underbelly of society. He shared a couple of good ones, and as it turned out, they were both about sports.

“I thought something was off,” the unhappy man complained, “because he gave me a really strange look. And just as we were about to leave, standing on the step with our toothpicks, he came up with a fishy excuse to step away for a minute. When he came back, he said there was a guy he wanted me to meet, so we took the new car. It was a house off Oxford St., which I thought was weird, but since I was having a cigar 103 I figured maybe that was making me a bit anxious. Imagine my horror when we walked in and I found myself alone and defenseless with ... what do you think?”

“Lie down, dear Harold, and don't get worked up,” Selia said, even though she was just as agitated herself. “What was it? Card sharks?”

“Oh, no,” he sighed, “it was the smell that gave it away even before I walked in, like a mix of floor polish and cough drops, with a splash of gin for good measure. No, it was a doctor's office, one of the expensive ones with carpeted floors and surgical tools displayed in glass cases.”

“A doctor!” screamed Selia. “Do you have an illness?” And she quickly dabbed cologne on his forehead, causing him to sneeze, which helped him feel better.

“Well, it’s a kind of illness but very unusual, and you can’t catch it,” he said. “And I think it was a trick, though it was well-intentioned by the limerick poet, as you’ll see.”

[104] “How so?” Selia said boldly, as she felt capable of tearing her enemies in half.

"Well, to make a long story short, I have a kind of hidden passion that’s gnawing at my heart, and that’s why I can’t write any more poems."

"What did the doctor do to you?" she asked, eager to get to the point and hear the worst. "Did he operate?"

“No, he was really nice,” said Harold, propping himself up a bit against his pillows. “It took me a while to understand everything. He told me I had been under a lot of stress and thought I might be unwell, so he wanted to ask me a few questions.” He said this while leaning back and making cat's cradles with his pink fingers. “Do you have anything on your mind?”

So, of course, I said, “No.”

At that, he gave me a sly look.

“Now, my good man,” he said, “just relax and answer me without thinking too much.”

[105] “Feeling a bit angry, I figured it was best to go along with him because I was worried that if I didn’t, I might end up giving him a sharp slap, you know how I get when I’m provoked.”

“Bat,” he said to me, simply.

“Ball,” I said to humor him.

“Out,” he says cunningly.

“‘Over,’ I said to catch his attention, and that worked for a moment. Then he rushed to a small notebook and made a note in some boxes, and rang his bell, prompting a secretary to come in. He spoke quietly with her until she left. A nice girl in a white blouse as well.”

“Ha,” said Selia as if stung. “But what were they up to?”

“Well, darling, you see, it’s a new illness. The doctors are struggling between you and me and the gatepost because the herd isn’t dying off as much as they used to.”

“No, I’ve noticed that there’s hardly ever a nice funeral these days,” said Selia.

106 "Well, with that and having no more appendices to remove, they had to find something new to do," he continued.

“I see,” said Selia, who, as you may have noticed, had become almost timid in these recent days and was just sitting there stroking Harold's hand out of pity.

“Now they confidently say that all smart people have a brain problem similar to a clogged drain (if you don’t mind me saying), and he was slyly probing me to figure out what had caused the blockage.”

“Oh!” With a shout, Selia jumped out of bed.

“Calm down, Selia,” said Harold, getting ready to stand up from his couch. “You know how improper it is to show emotion. And all these adventures of mine are pretty clever, for sure.”

“Smart? How smart?” she snapped, trembling with distress partly from the insult she had received.

“Sit down, dear Selia,” he said with a cool 107 drorl, “and I will tell you how, for you know we must let nothing slip by us, even if it’s just a sickness.”

“Too true,” she said, softening a bit and sitting down, though still at a distance.

“Well, I think this must be a lot like the latest trend,” he said, wiping his brow and settling back on the bed, “even though it comes a bit early in my career since it’s better suited for those who are burnt out, while I’m just getting started, you could say, and in my prime. Still, you never know; it is stylish.”

So Selia came and sat on the edge of the bed again while her love opened up about what was bothering him, which is always a good thing, even in the upper class.

“Well, this old doctor kept going on and on at me, and I started to get sleepy because it was hot and there was a fly buzzing around. I don’t remember what I said, but he seemed really interested. Suddenly, he jumped up. ‘Eureka!’ he cried, and started pacing back and forth until I felt completely dizzy. So then it all came out.”

“And what was it?” Selia asked, all excited.

"It was cricket."

"What happened?"

"My illness."

“How come? You were ill with a cricket. What cricket? Don’t bother with nonsense.”

“It’s no joke,” said Harold, smiling a bit with pride. “I’m the first case. Of course, between us, it is somewhat ridiculous. Still, they’re writing an article on me titled ‘Sport and Poetry: a Psychoanalysis of Genius’ to argue that I’m dealing with a kind of repressed desire to play cricket, just like Shakespeare struggled because his desire to play tennis was crushed since he couldn’t afford it.”

109 “Oh, I see,” said Selia, realizing now that it was a useful thing to say.

“Don’t interrupt,” he said, putting on a bit of a show. “It’s all because of the crushed desire. It's true that I’ve been telling myself lately that now that summer’s here, it’s a shame I’m a rich man because I can’t really play with the boys like I used to. I daydreamed a bit about the good old days and remembered the ball I left in a box under my bed. But that’s all it was, and we should be glad it wasn’t worse, since some men suffer from crushed desires of a kind I wouldn’t even want to mention to you.”

“Go on,” she said. “I’ve got you now. I read about it in the Sunday papers.”

“Indeed,” he said, “I didn't know you were so advanced. It all goes to show how truly I chose you as my own dearest Selia.”

[110] “Hey, come on,” she said, a bit annoyed, “there's no need to be so stiff even if you're feeling down. You don’t have to be so snobby with me.”

"Indeed, I must," he corrected. "Because if we aren't strict in private, we might make a mistake in public, and that won't benefit anyone, will it?"

Jumping out of bed, he went to the mirror and gave his outfit a quick fix to make sure he looked presentable after lounging around, then planting a kiss on the back of his beloved's neck, he got ready to take her out of the room.

“Come on, beautiful,” he said, having overheard this at the first party and saved it for later. “We have lobster for dinner, so let’s dance.”

They walked into the dining room where the chef had patiently waited, keeping the lobster on ice until it was time to serve. They sat down and dug in, thinking for a bit about Harold's recent illness.

[111] “And is your crushed wish healed now?” she finally asked, curious about what shape it might take.

“Yes, thank you, it’s much better, because it’s just a matter of bringing the back to the front, like when telling the doctor about it, and then everything feels easier.”

“I see,” she said, “and I’m glad you won’t play cricket because, to be honest, I think it’s a bit ordinary.”

And when they were done, they wiped their mouths, and he helped her up, and they drove in their blue car to the opera where Mr. Withersq had reserved a box.

The opera was already in progress, and since both of them were a bit tired and couldn’t chat as much as expected, Mr. Withersq rented a small gramophone from the box office. They placed it on the ground between their two gold chairs in their fancy box, which was decorated with red plush. They played it occasionally during the dull parts, which attracted a lot of attention as it could be clearly heard throughout the theater during the softer moments of the music. This was a simpler solution than trying to keep up a conversation. It’s not classy to sit quietly at the opera.

And when the hero had killed the heroine and sang a long song over her body, they got up and left, and the crowd applauded quite a bit as they departed. So, they went home to bed.

The next morning, Scrogg brought Selia her morning tea and suggested that it would be best for her to take a bath.

“They're really nice now, ma'am,” she explained, tossing all of Selia's clothes into the tall basket behind the washstand. “Thanks to bath salts and animal sponges.” Selia, surprised, propped herself up on her elbow in the cushy bed and said, “Do they actually get a bath every day with clean underwear?” Even she knew it was pointless to put dirty clothes on a clean body.

“Absolutely,” Scrogg said with a friendly smile. “My last lady was quite particular; she would never think of taking her bath without her special frog sponge, so I took the liberty of getting you one yesterday in the shape of a pigeon [114] which you will find in its spot in the bath rack.”

“Hey,” said Selia, “I thought things like that were just for the young.”

“Dear no,” said Scrogg, leaving with the towels, “everything is animal now, even electric lights.”

And so Selia took a bath first, but she was thinking about Scrogg.

“Go and tell Mr. Withersq to take a bath every day too,” she said thoughtfully, “because I worry he’s not quite there yet.”

“Very good, Ma'am,” said Scrogg and left, and Selia then went into the bathroom and soaped up all over with a sponge that resembled a pigeon with a beak and wooly eyes. After a good rinse and a quick dry, she felt so energized that she ran out and slammed all the doors down one side of the corridor, as you may recall, she had an entire floor to herself.

[115] After a nice breakfast with Harold, both of them reading Harold’s own newspaper propped up on the toaster, she left for a mysterious errand to the Majpottels. Mr. Withersq made a sad face, but since he was really busy in the mornings, he didn’t mind as much as he looked. He got back to writing his newspaper, which he did every day because he thought it was fun to advise others on how to succeed. He smiled to himself, thinking how few would have Uncle Burts at the send-off. It was a clever scheme as long as the craze for him lasted and it made more money than ever. However, he was already a little bored with it because, although of low birth, Mr. Withersq, like all truly great people, bored easily. From time to time, he found himself thinking about cricket, though not as much as before since the doctor had already given him some mind-numbing medicine. Every time he did 116 think, he wrote a poem that was soon to be printed in a book.

At around three, Selia came bouncing back, a little flushed and quite secretive, and burst into Mr. Withersq’s room while he was eating an orange, with a loud kiss.

“Yay!” she cried. “I think I might still outshine everyone. But what are those dirty things near your ears?”

“Those are my new sideburns,” Harold replied slickly. “All poets have them.”

“You dog,” she said, “you’re really standing out these days, aren’t you?” And with that, she hurried off to Scrogg to get dressed.

At four, she was dressed in a sleek black outfit that had no sleeves, but it wasn’t an evening dress, and a nose veil hung delicately from a beautifully designed piece made from horsehair.

“Let’s go,” she said, looking at him, and he looked at her with pride because she seemed much better.

[117] “You're amazing,” he said charmingly, so they made their way down the hall, which was even more crowded than before, with a dense crowd staring at them more than ever, and out to their blue car headed for the Countess' tea.

When they arrived, it was a small house but stylishly decorated in black and white paint, with orange curtains, lobelia in boxes around the windows, and two marble statues of little boys in front of the door, both with curly hair.

The chauffeur rang the bell. It was so different from when they were both poor. They could feel it. They walked into a hall with bead curtains and through to a room where the Countess herself stood at the door, welcoming them with an outstretched hand.

Mr. Withersq had a little trouble getting his hat off in time.

“Ah, good afternoon! How sweet of you to come,” exclaimed their hostess.

“Not at all,” Selia said. “We were just thrilled to visit you.” And they walked into the room. There were a lot of people there, eating off plates in their laps, and everyone murmured and stared as the heroes of the hour arrived, so Selia and Mr. Withersq sat down, had some plates passed to them, and reached for whatever food they could find lying around.

Nearby, Mr. Withersq sat a somewhat young lady with abundant ginger hair, dressed in violet, with protruding lips and a serious expression.

“Please tell me,” she chirped in a warm voice, “how do you write such beautiful poems?”

But Mr. Withersq, who had just stuffed a cress sandwich in his mouth, couldn't say much — he just growled in response. No one seemed angry, though; everyone around cooed and sighed, saying, "Ah, how simple he is" and "How true," because it was very similar to the first party, and "How true" was still the 119style, like red hats that sometimes show up, get worn for a bit, and then disappear.

“He had poetry inside him all along,” Selia said, “but it never came out.”

So now the Countess came to sit next to her and gently touched her hand affectionately.

“Do you think the great man would come to my little riverside home one day?” she said. “Please, dear lady, ask darling Mr. Withersq to come down to my little party at Maidenhead next week. There won’t be much to entertain; in fact, we only have two funny people coming so far, but we have an excellent gramophone, and maybe the boats will give him some new ideas.”

All listened. Many of the ladies were chewing on strings of colored beads that hung around their necks, and their ears perked up for the answer.

“Do you have any Harry Lauders?” said [120]Selia playfully, “because he really likes them.” Her Harold was making warning faces at her, but she ignored him. Oh, what a mistake. You could hear the brick drop. But the Countess was tactful enough to let out a little snicker.

“Oh, I don’t think he needs such petty things,” she said. “You don’t understand. No, we only have classical music. Still, we would be very happy to see him, as I have quite a reputation for my parties. In fact, I only have the finest people in my presence, and I would like to add dear Mr. Withers to my list.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Withers said, not quite understanding why she was so critical of his love. “We will come.”

Selia sat, taking a bite of her cake to show she didn't care.

Most of the guests, who were numerous but all women, had put their cups down and now 121 were fidgeting, talking, and rummaging through all the Countess’s belongings, touching the curtains and picking up the ornaments to check if the price tags were still on the bottom, tapping her slightly old-fashioned furniture, which was a bit quirky and not too bad for those who are too proud to have new items. Selia thought this was very rude and sat stiffly in despair, feeling the path to success was very difficult for women, as not much attention was coming her way. When they weren’t exploring the things in the room, they were fussing around Mr. Withersq, who sat there with a silly smile on his face trying to be the center of attention.

But as luck would have it, Selia got her revenge. Feeling quite bored, she stood up and said, "Gooby." Being the first to leave is a clever move; it shows you’re not too worried about where you are, so this was a slight and it had its impact. The ladies left [122] Mr. Withersq, who had misplaced his hat under a chair, and he came over to say goodbye to her.

“Thanks for coming, and now you know the way, you must come again,” said the Countess, hurrying and tripping over some lace hanging from her arms, as she was wearing a sort of pink silk dressing gown. “And won’t you come to my river party too?”

“Thanks, yes, I guess I will,” said Selia as a departing gesture and walked out, with Mr. Withersquash hurrying behind, but blowing kisses to the group who smiled sweetly at him.

When they got in the car, Selia sniffled a lot and tried to cry because she felt sorry for herself, but she only managed to shed a single tear, which Mr. Withersq wiped away for her.

“Don't cry,” he said, “over those ridiculous cats. They don't have anything better to do than to try to take a bit of our greatness. The time will come when they’ll be begging for your 123 favors just like they do for mine, and then we'll see.” So she perked up and made him stop to buy her a string of colored beads at a shop on the way home. When they got back, she went to the Turkish baths for a massage because she would need all her strength for the trial ahead.

The blue-coated driver helped Mr. Withersq and Selia into the car, which sped on smooth wheels like lightning through the western part of London and out into the more rural areas where there were trees. They moved quickly, and Selia's heart raced several times as they zoomed past people and a good number of dogs.

Twilight had fallen when they pulled up with a loud honk on their noisy horn at the white wicker gate of the Countess's country home on the evening of the planned day, having cleverly timed their arrival to be just in time for dinner.

As best as they could see, squinting through the darkness, it was a very low house and very broad, like a tennis club, but of course, it looked more impressive, nicely decorated with fragrant flowers and two white peacocks wandering on the lawn. But unfortunately, to their disappointment, no one was home. Only a little page boy was there, and he was a stutterer, having some difficulty getting out that the family was on the river in their boat, so Mr. Withersq gave him a sixpence and let him go.

“Good grief,” he said, waving off the chauffeur who drove away the car, “we're in trouble and won't get any food.”

"Yes, definitely," Selia said very angrily. "I think we should head home again," because she felt empty inside.

“Not so,” he exclaimed, “we haven’t come this far for nothing. Come with me.”

Now Selia was more than a little tired and only followed him because she hoped to be fed. Rubbing his kind arm away, she wobbled on her high heels next to him, filled with overwhelming anger. [126] But past experiences had taught our hero. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you’ll be satisfied soon enough, for Uncle Burt didn’t die for nothing.”

And he guided her through the dark paths under the eerie trees toward the flickering lights of a nearby village. Selia was quite scared as she worried about stepping on a frog or some other creature and carefully picked her way. Still, she had some courage and kept moving, only wishing she were somewhere else.

Soon they found a cozy little pub where a man was hissing at the feet of a horse he was washing. Selia glanced at the horse, which met her gaze, but Mr. Withersq looked inside the pub. He came out a moment later to find his sweetheart leaning against the animal.

“All is well,” he said, “our group is nearby.”

“Nasty crowd they could have waited for us,” 127said she. “Because my feet are sore and I’m feeling hungry too.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said the horse’s handler, coming up from underneath it, “but there’s a great little deli for ham and beef just a few doors down.”

Casting a cold look at this guy, Selia took the conversation. “Show the man the way,” she said, “and put me on the horse, because I need to sit down and don’t want to lower myself by going into a bar.”

The horse, hearing its name called, turned to stare, but she didn't care much about that, knowing that being strict with the dumb animals is best, so she made a stern face at it.

“Show a leg,” shouted Harold cheerfully, and with a firm grip on her, along with the man giving a push, they helped her onto the horse.

“That’s better,” she said, getting comfortable and finding it to be a nice broad creature as she had hoped. So Mr. Withers and the man 128 disappeared, leaving Selia bravely sitting on the horse, which nibbled at its bit a bit, but every time it moved she shouted “Whoo!” and it followed her command, surprising some locals who peeked out from the pub. Before long, Mr. Withers and the man returned, the latter carrying some paper bags.

“Yay, I have food!” shouted Harold, “and I’m feeling pretty poetic. This nice guy will give you a ride on his horse to the Countess’s boat, so let’s go.”

At this, the small group started moving, but first Selia shouted, “Oh please, give me a bite; I’m starving.” Mr. Withersq rummaged through a bag, pulled out a sandwich, and handed it to her. So they continued on through the darkness of the night, Selia on the horse while Mr. Withersq held one of her feet to keep her steady, as she nibbled on a rather questionable sandwich, unable to see what was in it, and bouncing around on the lively animal. 129 The horse's handler led them down another path, followed by some rowdy cheers from the pub. Before long, they spotted water, and in a few moments, they came to a stop.

“Hey!” howled the man.

From a big, white building filled with countless twinkling lights, a responding voice shouted, "Coo-ee!"

“Is that another house?” Selia asked. “I don’t see any boat.”

“It’s the boat,” yelled the horse’s owner.

Look! On the riverbank was a huge boat like a steamer, decorated with glowing lights, and as our hero arrived, many voices called out, and figures appeared on the deck. Selia had never seen a sight as magnificent as this grand boat.

“Well, it’s just like a house,” she exclaimed.

“It’s a houseboat,” Harold said, “because I read about it in an etiquette book.”

Oh, how Selia laughed hearing this! “So 130 that’s where all your stiff, new ways come from, huh?” she teased, though not as playfully as she usually would, since her horse was drinking from the river, and it was hard to balance on it with such a slope.

“Ha, welcome!” the Countess's voice was then heard. “Come on in, please! We were expecting you for dinner, but hey, better late than never.”

So Selia jumped off the horse, jolting herself a bit, and along with Mr. Withers, climbed a small ladder from the riverbank up the side of this magnificent boat, arriving safely on the deck. A crowd, popping up from all directions, greeted them with cheerful handshakes and coos of delight, as they had thought they were lost, and their arrival provided a welcome distraction. Lipstick barked excitedly, his eyes shinier than ever. The Countess, dressed in a tight black beaded gown that resembled a serpent, warmly took their hands and appeared even happier than before, as her fame had likely spread, making her think they were worth her time.

“Let me introduce you to the people,” she said kindly, waving toward the group of about six behind her.

“This is the well-known Mr. Bross,” she continued, pointing at a pear-shaped guy with plump legs in white pants and a short evening jacket, so he approached with a smile and a laid-back attitude.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Poet,” he said, and the Countess whispered to Selia, “He’s quite an amusing guy. We've asked him ten times before; it’s a shame he’s almost out of time.”

“How is that?” Selia asked, bowing to him.

“Oh, he’s not really good at much except for foreign languages,” the Countess said cheerfully, “and he only knows fifteen. You see, since he’s not 132 very highborn, we expect him to entertain us, and he sings really well, so he has to break into song after breakfast on Sundays to lift the somewhat chilly vibe of Sunday mornings. Since he’s already sung in ten different languages and, of course, we wouldn’t want to hear the same one twice, he only has five more weekends left to go.”

The singer sighed at this, no doubt overhearing, and stepped aside for a grayish-looking guy who smelled slightly of wine. "This is Mr. Panter, you must have heard of him," said the Countess. "He builds reputations."

"Is that so," said Selia, who was holding her own quite well, "what does he make them from?"

“Ah, dear girl, you don’t understand,” said the other lady with a smirk. “We always invite him over because when you get a bit tired of people and they haven’t done anything exciting lately, he creates such adorable little stories about everyone that they become enjoyable again. For some, he invents entire reputations for a price, and they thrive on them.”

“Oh, I get it,” said Selia. “It's a business.”

“Of course,” said the Countess kindly, “because they all want to live, you know. Just like cats cleverly survive by being cats and getting milk and meat, many people have to survive by maintaining their reputations, which leads others to inquire about them and provide for them. Mr. Panter has the most impressive office space near the British Museum.”

“I need to remember him,” Selia said, “he could be helpful someday when we want to get attention.”

“Tush,” tweeted her friend. “Mr. Panter leaves ladies to handle their own reputations, don’t you, sir?” This comment made a priestly-looking young woman, adorned with several ropes of pearls around her elegant long neck, lounging in a deckchair near their feet, laugh. Selia was now introduced to her, and as much as she could understand, this lady was simply an earl’s sister because, of course, being noble is enough and avoids a lot of trouble.

“I hear,” said the earl's sister, who was very laid-back and had a playful way of speaking and carrying herself, “that Mr. Bross is learning Welsh.”

“Goodness,” said Selia, “now he’ll be able to come again for another weekend.”

“Definitely not,” said the Countess proudly. “This isn’t a political houseboat; we’re artists, and I don’t think we could handle Welsh after breakfast, even on Sundays. I need to talk to him and try to encourage him to learn something else.”

So she got up and went to do it.

Meanwhile, Mr. Withersq had kind of slipped away toward a cute girl in a cream dress 135very low and fluffy, and he had chatted with her while she looked at him with wide, amazed eyes to hear such a great poet speak so casually. Now he was mumbling something with a lot of muffled laughter to a very tall, older man in a light grey silk suit, munching on a fish sandwich that he occasionally dipped in a glass of champagne brought to him by a server dressed like a sailor.

From the chair she had sunk into, Selia reached for Harold's nearby trousers. He handed her some food, which she quickly devoured. Then, feeling tired and unable to understand the various people around her who were all smoking long cigarettes and seemed to be sharing endless private jokes, she headed off to bed. Her room was down some steep brass-tipped stairs with a rope handrail, deep within the boat. Imagine her surprise when she opened her room door to find Scrogg knitting a sock inside.

“Good day!” shouted Scrogg, jumping up and getting ready to free her. “Good evening,” said Selia, covering her yawn with a smile. “How did you ever get here, Scrogg?”

“I thought you would like me,” Scrogg said humbly, “so I came up the river in a little rowboat I keep for emergencies.”

“I see,” said Selia, “that was really nice of you, I’m sure. I’m really tired, though.”

“No wonder, madam,” said the maid, quickly throwing her pink Grecian nightdress over her head. “With so many smart people around, it’s no surprise that the Countess only serves the best cream at her boat parties.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Selia. “What a funny pillow!” And there she was, jumping into a bed that was built against the wall like a real boat's bed, and her pillow was like a life buoy, but filled with feathers and covered with white linen and trimmed with real lace. Scrogg quickly set up a hammock across the small room, under the round window, and climbed in to sleep. So, to the sound of the slapping waves, both mistress and maid dozed off while Mr. Withersq talked about his poetry to the company on deck, all still sipping champagne until the early hours.

Selia slept in the next day because the fresh air made her sleepy, and she only peeked out of her bed just in time to hear the loud end of Mr. Bross’s Sunday morning song and the applause that followed. Scrogg then came in with a tray of rolls and coffee.

“The Countess asked me to tell you that the song was a big hit,” she said with her usual curtsey, “it was in Yiddish this week.”

“Oh,” said Selia, rubbing her eyes to wake up for the day, “how clever!” Unfortunately, she didn’t realize where this was being said. Just as she finished her breakfast, a loud [138] knock echoed at her door and Scrogg opened it.

“Dear me,” said this good servant, for who should be standing there but Mr. Withersq in a fancy navy bathing suit embroidered with anchors and wearing canvas boots. Selia modestly hid under her covers.

"Forget all that," he said, "everything is outdoors here, so hurry up. You'll find a swimsuit under the pillow, and you have five minutes."

With a big grin, he walked away, leaving Selia to jump up and quickly put on the cute outfit that he mentioned she would find under the lifebuoy pillow. She felt a bit shy in front of the men and also showed off a little because of the Countess in a pea-green suit, the Earl's sister in mauve, and the nice girl in orange, but Selia was all in black like Annette Kellermann.

“Hurrah,” she exclaimed as she appeared, and they all cheered too because Selia was truly a wonderful girl. Mr. Withersq patted himself on the back and jumped for joy to see her, accidentally knocking over a pot of flowers decorating the boat. The water below sparkled and looked a little chilly, the birds were singing, and the trees were lush and green.

“One, two, three,” said the Countess, and at three, there was such a splash as the whole group jumped excitedly into the water, followed by Lipstick the dog. Selia felt joyful to see them all there, real and alive, and Harold was happily treading water. They all had a great time, and Selia raced against the man who had been in gray silk but was now in striped shorts, finishing by dunking him.

When the swim was over, they all climbed onto the deck, dripping wet, and were welcomed by attendants with hot towels. Then they headed to their rooms to get dressed, after which lunch was served. It was a fantastic meal with fresh salmon, not canned, and after lunch, Mr. Withersq shared a new poem he had written that very day, which everyone really enjoyed. He even got a stamp from the Earl's sister to send it to the King, and Panter patted him on the shoulder and promised never to forget him.

True to their routine, Mr. Withersq and Selia got ready to leave early. After many goodbyes, they climbed over the side and down the ladder to solid ground, where their car was waiting for them. They waved goodbye as they drove off, while Scrogg was spotted getting into her small boat, soon disappearing around the bend of the water as she rowed quickly.

As Selia settled back into the car with a final wave to the boat, Mr. Withersq captured her in a passionate kiss.

“Tush,” she said, “enough already.” But she wasn't as annoyed as she appeared because she loved him; of course, she still had to play a little hard to get.

[141] “I think we’re doing really well,” he said, smacking his lips and pulling out a big cigar from his pocket. “Bross gave me this, and I think he’ll agree to come to our parties when we have a place.”

Selia blushed at his meaningful look at this word and then said, “No doubt he will be happy to hear, Harold. And it won’t be long now because next week I hope to show them what I’m made of and have my photo in the weekly papers, which is fame.”

So, hand in hand with Mr. Withers, puffing on a big cigar, they glided back to London and their hotel.

It is now the following Saturday.

Meanwhile, the Majpottel brothers had not been idle; they had managed things as best as they could, dropping hints here and there in the usual way and keeping expectations high for the big day of Selia’s showdown with fate, which was set to happen that very afternoon.

Selia was lying on her second floor at the Grand Palace, being pampered by a bunch of ladies and girls who came around to take care of her like boxers do. They rubbed, slapped, and tossed her around, flicked towels at her, and splashed water on her until her arms were as strong as nails, and so were her legs, which was lucky because in tennis, you need both.

[143] After they finished with her, they helped her get dressed and put on some powder, then accompanied her like attendants to the waiting taxi that Mr. Withersquash had arranged for her. Mr. Withersquash, who was now sporting the special poet's badge on his coat, was waiting for her.

“My hour has come,” she whispered to him, feeling a bit bad inside at the idea. “Have courage,” he whispered back, “and then we can get married!”

So she drove off to Lords, which is a big park named because all the rich folks go there to watch the games. When they arrived, there was a huge crowd, and they went in to take a look around to catch their breath before starting. They ended up in the wrong area among the crowd, so they pushed through to the society section. Selia was dressed in a pleated white dress with matching shoes and stockings, and Mr. Withersq wore his best daytime suit and a shiny top hat in fine style, and everyone made way for them with murmurs of praise, so they walked on quite proudly.

When they reached the society area that was roped off, an arrogant lady sniffed at them and was intent on stopping them, especially Selia.

“And what are you up to, my good girl?” she said unpleasantly, but just then their old friend the admiral came leaping up in a white outfit and said:

“Make way for the Head Poet and Lady!”

So the proud lady had to step aside and felt very hurt, no doubt.

After shaking hands with the admiral, they stepped over to where the King and Queen had just arrived and greeted them, which surprised everyone present to see them so familiar with the highest authorities in the land.

His Majesty called out,

145 “The Lady Selia wants to conquer the world with her tennis skills. Who will face her?”

And Rupert and Gerald Majpottel came skipping up and shouted, “Hey! This way for the lady tennis champions! Who wants to test their strength? Step up and try to beat Lady Selia!” This made everyone laugh heartily to hear the brothers joke like this, which was their little game and it really brightened the mood. The top lady tennis players, who had been lounging in chairs behind the King and Queen, quickly jumped up when they heard the Majpottels' shout and said, “Here we are!” and there were three of them.

Meantime, the crowd was gathering in huge numbers all around the society event, staring intently while the newspaper reporters snapped photos and scribbled notes. Oh, what a moment! For a second, Selia [146] wished Mr. Withersquash's Uncle Burt had never passed away, but then she steeled herself, blushing a bit at the cheers that erupted when the crowd noticed she was being a good sport. She confidently tossed her hat aside and called for a bat.

“Come on then!” she shouted to the top female tennis players.

“Not so fast!” said the Queen kindly, “because it's three against one, which we all know isn't fair.”

So one of the three top female tennis players, all of whom had medals on their chests from all the games they’d won, said she would take Selia's side. Some of the society people snickered and said “nonsense” because they didn’t know Selia and looked down on her, knowing she came from a humble background since she had only recently made a name for herself.

Out on the grassy field, she stepped confidently, swinging her tennis racket while Mr. Withersquash looked at her affectionately from next to royalty.

[147] “Pom!” The game started, and a ball came over. And “pom!” Selia hit it back, and she kept going. Nothing could get past her. Oh, she was really good at tennis, Selia, even though her talent hadn't been recognized until now.

Love thirty, love forty, game, it kept going on for ages, and finally, when Selia's partner started to get frustrated because she never got a chance to hit the ball and began complaining, Selia decided to take her on too and completely dominated her even though they were on the same side of the net. Then she smashed the two ladies on the other side and took down everyone. They could barely stand because they were so tired and annoyed.

“Hurrah, hurrah!” shouted Mr. Withersquash from the society section, and the King and Queen stood up to get a better view. The crowd erupted in cheers, and the Majpottel brothers embraced each other, crying loudly and happily, tears of joy streaming down their faces. It was truly a sight unlike anything you’d ever seen until finally, Selia threw her tennis racket into the air and exclaimed loudly:

"Are you done yet?"

And the two women players on the other side of the net and the one female partner who had also lost all said together: “Yes!” and, throwing down the medals from their dishonorable chests, they slinked away and were seen no more. Selia was left victorious on the field, which was a neat little patch of green amid the cheering crowd, and the Queen beckoned, so she went back up into the social area, hanging her head in modesty.

“Cheers,” said the King kindly as she walked up, and the Queen took her hand, patted it, and said, “You’re made of good stuff, my dear, and you’ll make a good man happy,” at which point she gave a meaningful glance to Mr. Withersq.

With a deep blush, Selia stumbled into his 149 arms, and he kissed her on the lips, which made everyone present shout with joy and smile, delighted to witness such a romance.

“I’m excited to announce that my Head Poet and his fiancée Selia are engaged,” the King said while stroking his beard, and he was the first to shake hands with the esteemed and fortunate Harold.

Just then, a page boy stepped up with a big bouquet in his hands and placed it at Selia’s feet. Mr. Withersq gave him a tip, and on the bouquet was a small tag that read, “With all good wishes from the boys,” so Selia knew her old friends hadn’t forgotten her.

And now let’s say goodbye to Mr. Withersq with his Selia in his arms, surrounded by royalty and the best of England’s society, he the Head Poet and she the Queen of Sport. For what more could they possibly want?