sufficiently vague not to incriminate her. It had seemed that these requirements would be met if she said, in a tone of easy patronage, "Mr. Wordsworth is certainly a very bright writer of poetry, but as for me—give me Shakspere!"
She had thought of saying "the Bard of Avon," a polished phrase coined for his "Compendium" by the ingenious Mr. Gaskell; but, hearing her own voice strangely break the silence, Mrs. Keyts became timid at the last moment and let it go at "Shakspere."
"Oh, Shakspere—of course!" said most of the ladies at once, and those not quick enough to utter it concertedly looked it almost reprovingly at the speaker.
A silence fell, as if every one must have time to recover from this trivial platitude. But it was a silence outrageously shattered by Miss Caroline, who said:—
"O dear! I've always considered Shakspere such an overrated man!"
The silence grew more intense, only Mrs. Potts emitting a slight but audible gasp. But swift looks flashed from each lady to her horrified sisters. Was it possible that the unfortunate woman had been in no condition to come among them?
"Oh, a greatly overrated man!" repeated Miss Caroline, terribly, "far too wordy—too fond of wretched puns—so much of his humor coarse and tiresome. By the way, have you ladies taken up Byron?
