"I never heard of him before," murmured the woman, closing the volume with a gentle little snap of finality.
"But you will," said Repellier as his guest slowly drew on her white gloves and arranged her hair before his mirror as she passed.
"You will," he repeated as he swung his easel around to the light, and opening a door on his left called his model in for what was to be a morning of work for both of them.
CHAPTER IV
THE WORLD AND THE WOMAN
Leave not thy slumbering melodies
To dream too long within thine eyes;
Let not all time thy bosom hold
Song in that overfragrant fold,
Lest thou a tardy gleaner prove
And thy reluctant hand but move
The overgoldened sheaf, to find
Thy tenderest touch can never bind
These thoughts too long unharvested—
Lest on some byway stern be shed
That golden, sad, ungarnered grain,
When thou canst sow nor reap again.
John Hartley, "The Lost Voice."
These souls of ours are like railway bridges—they can be reconstructed even when the trains of temptation and trial are creeping over them.—"The Silver Poppy."