Ventnor (much interested). Have you a copy still, by any chance? The first edition, I mean? Mine was stolen years ago. Do you think you could put your hand on it?
Mrs. Dale (taking a small shabby book from the table at her side). It’s here.
Ventnor (eagerly). May I have it? Ah, thanks. This is very interesting. The last copy sold in London for £40, and they tell me the next will fetch twice as much. It’s quite introuvable.
Mrs. Dale. I know that. (A pause. She takes the book from him, opens it, and reads, half to herself—)
How much we two have seen together,
Of other eyes unwist,
Dear as in days of leafless weather
The willow’s saffron mist,
Strange as the hour when Hesper swings
A-sea in beryl green,
While overhead on dalliant wings
The daylight hangs serene,
And thrilling as a meteor’s fall
Through depths of lonely sky,
When each to each two watchers call:
I saw it!—So did I.
Ventnor. Thin, thin—the troubadour tinkle. Odd how little promise there is in first volumes!
Mrs. Dale (with irresistible emphasis). I thought there was a distinct promise in this!
Ventnor (seeing his mistake). Ah—the one you would never let me fulfil? (Sentimentally.) How inexorable you were! You never dedicated a book to me.