There was a little mite of a man present, with a fat white face and a great shock of red hair, whom the others called the Bard; and he announced that he was writing a poem in which it would be necessary to give a general definition of Woman in a single line; and he called upon the company to help him.
“Woman,” wailed Weir, languidly, as he leaned upon the mantelpiece, “Woman is—such sweet sorrow.”
There was a laugh at this, in which, however, Harold could not join. Then the Bard cried, “That’s too abstract;” and Weir retorted, drawling, “Oh, if you must have her defined in terms of matter, Woman is a mass of pins.” Harold slunk away into a corner, to hide his shame. He felt that his father was playing the fool outrageously.
The Bard curled himself up, cross-legged like the bearded Turk, upon the hearthrug, and repeated some verses. He called them a “villanelle,” and said they were “after the French.”
“I have lost my silk umbrella,
Someone else no doubt has found it:
I would like to catch the fella!
“Or it may be a femella
Cast her fascination round it.
I have lost my silk umbrella.