"Of dispositions like hers that are worthy analysis, it is expedient to restrain the lesser deduction in order to gain the full breadth of the greater; one must look through the eyelashes at the substantial flesh and blood perfections to achieve the infinite spiritual possibilities deduced by the instinctive calculus.... Spiritual possibilities! Am I mad to seek for them in a woman-creature with the appetite of a schoolboy and an avowed penchant for periwinkles?"
"That last clause," Lorraine said as I came to it, "is merely an ebullition of annoyance. I mean to proceed with my analysis more cool-headedly. The subject is interesting."
"Yes, proceed with it; but I won't warrant the coolness."
"What do you bet?" smiled he thoughtfully.
"My dear fellow, I don't bet on certainties."
Just then the advent of visitors interrupted the discussion, and a whole fortnight passed without my seeing either the poet or my sister.
I had begun to relegate the patchwork romance to the store-cupboard of memory, when into my room rushed Sarah with almost juvenile impetuosity.
"Look at this! Did you ever hear anything so crazed?" She threw a scrap of paper on the table. It was addressed to Clair, and I read it aloud:—
Dear Lady,—You loathe poets. I therefore desire to adopt another calling. Cab-driving might suit me, but I fear I am lacking in the necessary command of language to ensure success. I could sweep a crossing with neatness and precision, and can pick periwinkles with unrivalled velocity. To this end I have been practising daily with a darning-needle and a stop-watch. Have you any objection to entering the lists against me, the winner of course claiming whatever guerdon he or she may desire?
The note was in Lorraine's handwriting, and affixed to it was a copy of Clair's answer:—