“May I pour your wine?” she asked, with downcast lashes.
“Can you manage it and not spill a drop? Remember 303 Cratinus wept and died of grief seeing his wine––no doubt, this same vintage––spilt!”
But Straws was not called upon to emulate this classic example. The feat of filling his glass was deftly accomplished, and a moment later the poet raised it with, “‘Drink to me only with thine eyes!’” An appropriate sentiment for Celestina who had nothing else to drink to him with. “Won’t you have some of this––what shall I call it?––hash, stew or ration?”
“Oh, I’ve had my supper,” she answered.
“How fortunate for you, my dear! It isn’t exactly a company bill of fare! But everything is what I call snug and cozy. Here we are high up in the world––right under the roof––all by ourselves, with nobody to disturb us––”
A heavy footfall without; rap, rap, rap, on the door; no timid, faltering knock, but a firm application of somebody’s knuckles!
“It’s that Jack-in-the-box Frenchman,” muttered the writer. “Go to the devil!” he called out.
The door opened.
“You have an original way of receiving visitors!” drawled a languid voice, and the glance of the surprised poet fell upon Edward Mauville. “Really, I don’t know whether to come in or not,” continued the latter at the threshold.
“I beg your pardon,” murmured Straws. “I thought it was a––”