Hearing the final line, those gathered were puzzled. The poem had appeared in spring in the capital, and had spread throughout the land. Apart from the mention of the river that had made the readers uncomfortable, numerous poets had always assumed that nothing about this poem could be nitpicked. But the last four lines were the best part, and they were unsure why Zhuang Mohan felt otherwise.
"The reason the first four lines are the best," said Zhang Mohan coldly, "is not because the last four lines are not good, but because... the last four lines were not written by Master Fan!"
With these words, there was a great hubbub in the hall, which quickly turned to a deathly silence. No one said a word.
Fan Xian pretended to be stunned, but he understood many things. As things quietened down, he leant on a table, drunk, looking at Zhuang Mohan with a smile on his face.
