"How could he be so stupid?" she cried. "I hope you took them away from him."

"Oh, no. I sent the guinea. They must be published. Pauline, I must have done something soon or I shall go mad! Surely you see the funny side of his offer? I think the notion of my expecting to get five shillings apiece out of a lot of readers, and my only reader's getting a guinea out of me is funny. I think it's quite humorous."

"Nothing is funny to me that hurts you," Pauline murmured. "And I'm heartbroken about the books."

"Oh, when I'm rich I can buy plenty."

"But not the same books."

"That's mere sentiment," he laughed. "And the only sentiment I allow myself is in connection with things that you have sanctified."

Then he told her about the flowers pressed in the two volumes of Dante, both in that same fifth canto.

"And almost you know," Guy whispered, "I value most the ragged robin, because it commemorates the day you really began to love me."

"Ah, no," she protested. "Guy, don't say that. I always loved you, but I was shy before. I could not tell you. Sometimes, I wish I were shy now. It would make our love so much less of a strain."

"Is it a strain?"