Upon the wine-dark waters
The sun strikes clean and hot.
But it's O for a London garden
And the woman who loves me not!
"You say you are no musician, Clem, but I never knew anyone who could make lovelier sounds come out of a piano," Poppy said.
Clem laughed.
"Dear, I can't play at all: it is this little song that sets chords singing in my head. What were you thinking of when you wrote it?"
"Of Dr. Ferrand, I think, that first Sunday I came here. You remember how he talked of London?—and you said that he had 'his own box of matches and could make his own hell any day in the week,' like poor Dick Heldar. The circumstances seemed to indicate that there was some woman in England who didn't love him—but I daresay that applies to a good many men out here."
"The most usual circumstance," said Clem laughing, "is that the woman loves too well. Some men find that hardest of all to bear."
Poppy reflected on this for a while.
"I suppose you mean wives! It is curious how many people seem to marry to live apart, isn't it, Clem?"
"Yes; I call it the cat-and-reptile game," said Clem, swinging round on the music-stool and beginning to run her hands through her crinkly, curly, fuzzy dark hair with seven red lights in it. "The cat catches the reptile, scratches him, bites him, wounds him, puts her mark on him for good, and as soon as he has no more kick left in him, off she goes and leaves him alone."
Poppy was laughing.