WHY JESUS WEPT 
49 
ANGELA. 
 
Ah, were such nights thy gift, dear Christ, all maids 
Were well thy servants.  This is past all speaking ! 
The utmost triumph of a life well spiced 
With victory — this beats all.  Hortense !  Hortense ! 
Bring me the brandy — pour a double dram ! 
Here’s luck — ah, Satan, give me fifty such ! 
Drinks off the brandy. 
And now to bed again — to sleep, I am tired. 
She goes in. 
 
 
 
 
Introduction of new character. 
 
The figure of the Marquis of Glenstrae 
Demands the kind attention of the spot 
Of consciousness that readers shift away 
In awe of such a high exalted pot, 
In England’s upper Witenagemot 
A figure bright enough to make the sun dun, 
Yet common — to conceive him asketh not 
Imagination’s waistcoat buttons undone ! 
Any old gentleman in any club in London.