"But, Guy, my darling, why don't you borrow the money from Father? I am sure he'd be delighted to lend it to you."
Guy shook his head.
"It's impossible. My debts must be paid by myself. I wouldn't even borrow from Michael Fane. Dearest, don't look so sad. I would sell my soul for you. Kiss me. Kiss me. I care for nothing but your kisses. You must promise not to say a word of this to any one. Besides, it's no sacrifice to do anything that brings our marriage nearer by an inch. These debts are weighting me down. They stifle me. I am miserable, too, about the poems. I haven't told you yet. It's really a joke in one way. Yes, it's really funny. Worrall wrote to ask for a guinea before he read them. Now, don't you think there is something very particularly humorous in being charged a guinea by a reader? However, don't worry about that."
"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.