Archie delivered this remarkable discovery in a tone of great self satisfaction.
“Oh, you dear old thing!” said Dolly.
“Well, it does you know,” said he.
There was a pause. Archie kissed his wife (I am not complaining; he has, of course, a perfect right to kiss his wife) and strolled away toward the hothouses.
I lit another cigarette. Then Dolly, pointing to the stem of the dial, cried:
“Why, here’s another inscription—oh, and in English?”
She was right. There was another—carelessly scratched on the old battered column—nearly effaced, for the characters had been but lightly marked—and yet not, as I conceived from the tenor of the words, very old.
“What is it?” asked Dolly, peering over my shoulder, as I bent down to read the letters, and shading her eyes with her hand. (Why didn’t she put on her hat? We touch the Incomprehensible.)
“It is,” said I, “a singularly poor, shallow, feeble, and undesirable little verse.”
“Read it out,” said Dolly.