The society in question met at the Blackheath Conservatory on Saturday afternoons. The building, which was not too far from the local railway station, had been erected in the later part of the previous century, as part of the vogue for improving the lot of the common man by exposure to the arts. Its gothic and red brick facade was set a little way back from the road, behind a low wall and a screen of stunted trees.

I entered the building and enquired of the porter where I would find the meeting of the poetry society. The porter directed me towards one of the building's recital halls. I followed his instructions and soon arrived at a pair of doors with frosted glass windows. From just beyond the doors I could hear the sound of a voice declaiming in blank verse. Carefully, so as not to disturb the people in the hall, I entered quietly and took up a position at the back of the hall.

The hall was a large and echoing room, almost totally unsuited to the reading of poetry. Its atmosphere was cold and regimented, with rows of chairs set out in front of the stage. Only a few of the chairs were occupied by scattered forms. A single, earnest-looking man stood at the front of the hall, reading from a leather-bound notebook that he gripped tightly in one hand. His other hand scanned across the pages of the notebook, a living bookmark for his verse.

Despite my best efforts, my entrance did not go unnoticed. The door creaked abominably, alerting everyone in the hall to my presence. A number of heads turned towards me and glared in admonishment of my audacity. I mumbled an apology before sitting in an empty seat. The reader coughed and began to recite his verse once more. The heads turned away from me, their attention returning to where it had been before my interruption.

I sat and listened to the earnest young man as he continued with his reading. His style of verse was difficult to decipher, and I soon found my head swimming from the effort. The others in the hall did not seem to find listening to be such a chore as I did, and when the young man finished his reading, he was greeted by a round of appreciative murmuring and isolated clapping. He bowed his head in appreciation of his audience, then returned to his seat. An older, more severe gentleman stood up and addressed the hall. "Thank you very much, Peter. Now, I propose that we adjourn for refreshments."

I followed the crowd - such as it was - to a small table at the side of the hall. A large kettle had been placed on the table, along with cups, saucers and other accoutrements of afternoon tea. The members of the poetry society stood around the table, chatting amongst themselves as they drank their tea and ate their sandwiches. I remained on the periphery of the group, waiting for an opportunity to broach the subject of Miss M_. It was at this juncture that the older gentleman who had previously addressed the meeting decided to approach me. He placed himself in my field of vision and extended his right hand in greeting. "Good afternoon. Allow me to introduce myself - the name is Professor C_. I am the president of this small group. Always glad to welcome a new member."

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. My primary purpose there was to determine if anyone had any information that might be useful in the treatment of Miss M_. I was also aware that these people might not know of Miss M_'s situation, and that such knowledge might affect her reputation amongst her former friends. Succumbing to a sense of gallant obligation, I took Professor C_ by the hand. "Dr W_. I heard about your society through a friend of mine and decided to pay a visit. I must apologise for interrupting the earlier reading."

Professor C_ laughed at this. "Not to worry. Tell me, you said you had heard of us from a friend. Obviously it is not a friend who is present today, otherwise you would not be on your own. May I ask who?"

"Indeed. Do you know Miss M_?"

For a moment I could have sworn that Professor C_'s eyes narrowed like those of predator about to fall on its prey. Then, his expression became one of concern. "Yes, a talented young lady. She has not attended any of our meetings for some time. How is she?"

"She has gone to take the air in the Lake District, or so I believe."

The professor nodded, seeming to accept this untruth. "The Lake District? I hope she took some Wordsworth with her. Now, allow me to introduce you to the others."

I followed Professor C_ as he introduced me to the other members of the society. When they were told that I was a friend of Miss M_, most of them appeared friendly and made enquiries about her health. I answered these queries in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. However, it was soon time to continue the meeting.

At a signal from Professor C_, the assembly took up their seats for the remainder of the programme. The quality of readings varied considerably, but the audience responded politely no matter how dire the verse. I found the droning of the voices and the warmth of the hall to be soporific, and I was soon in a state of semi-stupor. I looked at the expressions on the faces of some of the other audience members, and it was clear that I was not the only one so afflicted. This changed when Professor C_ stood before the group.

Professor C_ was the last of the poets to give a reading that day. He held in his hands a leather-bound volume with letters picked out in gold leaf on its front, from which he proceeded to recite his verse. The poem had a strange but marked effect on his audience. As he spoke, his words cut through the mid-afternoon fog that had descended on me. The language he used was like no other that I had heard before, yet it seemed to me that the professor's words were possessed of some eldritch meaning that spoke to my soul. Also, the metrics of his verse were curiously stimulating but simultaneously enervating. The tension set up by his poetry pulled at my senses, causing my perceptions to shift. As Professor C_'s reading continued I was sure that the veil of the mundane world would be lifted from my senses and some great truth would be revealed to me.

Then, as suddenly as this had started, it came to an end. Around me the members of the society were getting to their feet and saying their goodbyes. None of them seemed to be suffering from the same exhaustion that appeared to have affected me. I rose unsteadily to my feet and made my way to the exit. At this point Professor C_ clapped his hand on my shoulder. I turned to face him.

"Well, Dr W_, I hope we shall see you again!" I stuttered my assurances that I would return. Professor C_ smiled apologetically. "Good. New members are always welcome. However, there is the matter of a small honorarium - to cover the hire of the hall, you understand?"

That night, as I slept, my dreams were haunted by a sensation of suffocation; as if something was drawing the breath from my body. When I awoke, I found my bedclothes were strewn willy-nilly across the floor of my room.