To which the wish to know seemeth a sort of treason.’
‘And again,—
‘Why dost thou ever cease to sing?
Singing is such sweet comfort, who,
If he could sing the whole year through,
Would barter it for anything?’
‘Would you like him to sing the whole year through?’ asked Lamia.
Veronica made no reply; for, though the question was put with an air of perfect seriousness, it might have been interpreted otherwise. So Lamia went on:
‘I suppose I do not understand, because I am not married, and still less have the felicity to be married to a poet. But, if I were, I fear I should be exacting enough to wish to be even sweeter comfort to him than his singing. He paid you a great compliment, Veronica, the other day, when you were not present; for at the end of an interesting discussion,—interesting, at least, to me,—he said: “The sum of the matter is, bad wives are as rare as good husbands.” Yet I confess it seems to me the worst husband in the world would be one who could find consolation in perpetual carolling. I would rather he beat me.‘ I need scarcely say that I heartily sympathised, though without having the courage to say so, with these sentiments of Lamia, albeit it is not easy to decide if they were really hers or not. She has a fine Socratic talent for eliciting information; and she was as successful on this occasion as usual, for, much to my surprise, Veronica, after a brief silence, rendered necessary perhaps by the violence of Lamia’s closing observation, said very quietly:
‘I should like, if I may, to recite some lines he wrote the other day, which seem to bear on your misgivings, if but indirectly, and may perhaps help to diminish them.’ Thereupon she recited, much better, I thought, than the Poet himself, the following apology:—