They wandered along the paths shaded by yews and willows, and Sylvia told him many things about her life; he was the easiest person to talk to that she had ever met.
“And so this passion for the East has been inspired by the Hall of a Thousand and One Marvels. Dear me, what an unexpected consequence. And this Hall of a Thousand and One Marbles,” he indicated the cemetery with a sweep of his cane, “this inspires you to write an epitaph? Well, my dear, such an early essay in mortuary literature may end in a famous elegy. You evidently possess the poetic temperament.”
“I don’t like poetry,” Sylvia interrupted. “I don’t believe it ever. Nobody really talks like that when they’re in love.”
“Quite true,” said the stranger. “Poets have often ere this been charged with exaggeration. Perhaps I wrong you in attributing to you the poetic temperament. Yes, on second thoughts, I’m sure I do. You are an eminently practical young lady. I won’t say prosaic, because the word has been debased. I suspect by the poets who are always uttering base currency of thoughts and words and emotions. Dear me, this is a most delightful adventure.”
“Adventure?” repeated Sylvia.
“Our meeting,” the stranger explained.
“Do you call that an adventure?” said Sylvia, contemptuously. “Why, I’ve had adventures much more exciting than this.”
“I told you that your temperament was anti-poetic,” said the stranger. “How severe you are with my poor gossamers. You are like the Red Queen. You’ve seen adventures compared with which this is really an ordinary afternoon walk.”
“I don’t understand half you’re saying,” said Sylvia. “Who’s the Red Queen? Why was she red?”
“Why was Sylvia Scarlett?” the stranger laughed.