Phyllis, I cannot woo in rhyme,
As courtlier gallants woo,
With utterances sweet as thyme
And melting as the dew.
An arm to serve; true eyes to see;
Honour surpassing love;
These, for all song, my vouchers be,
Dear love, so thou’lt them prove.
Bid me—and though the rhyming art
I may not thee contrive—
I’ll print upon thy lips, sweetheart,
A poem that shall live.
It may have been derivative; it seemed to me, when I came to read the complete copy, passable. At the first, even, I was certainly conscious of a thrill of secret gratification. But, as I said, I had mastered no more than the first four lines, when a rustle at the door informed me that I was detected.
She started, I could see, as I turned round. I was not at the trouble of apologizing for my inquisitiveness.
“Yes,” I said; “I saw you at Paul’s Exchange, got your address, and came on here. I want some circulars typed. No doubt you will undertake the job?”
I was conning her narrowly while I spoke. It was obviously a case of neurasthenia—the tendril shooting in the sunless vault. But she had more spirit than I calculated on. She just walked across to the empty fireplace, collared those verses, and put them into her pocket. I rather admired her for it.
“Yes, with pleasure,” she said, sweetening the rebuke with a blush, and stultifying it by affecting to look on the mantelpiece for a card, which eventually she produced from another place. “These are my terms.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “What do you say to a contra account—you to do my work, and I to set my professional attendance against it? I am a doctor.”
She looked at me mute and amazed.
“But there is nothing the matter with me,” she murmured, and broke into a nervous smile.
“O, I beg your pardon!” I said. “Then it was only your instrument which was out of sorts?”