“I remember that you compared beauty without intellect to a lamp without a flame, a rose without fragrance.”
“I did not intend the comparison for you, Sweetheart, as, unfortunately for the peace of mankind, you have intellect enough to brighten the lamp and perfume the rose. I did not know you so yearned for the dignity of intellect, else I should have owned that I might find a publisher for your verses.”
“A publisher? But it might be more difficult to find readers and a niche in the temple of fame. I do not thirst for mediocrity,” she said, with a sidelong glance at his smiling face.
“You are right. And so many people arrive at nothing else, that I advise you not to attempt rivaling them. Keep your pretty verses for your friends’ reading. See, I carry some of them in my vest-pocket with which to refresh the dull prose of my thoughts.”
“Pray don’t!” she cried, as he began to unfold the paper.
“True genius is always modest,” Norman de Vere answered, laughingly; and he read aloud in tones so musical that they lent a new charm to Thea’s simple rhyme:
“BEHIND THE CURTAIN.
“Little school-girl at her books
From the window chilly looks
Out upon the sunny world,