"Indeed, they are," said John warmly. "Don't they light up the rooms, though?"
And so, with John's books and furniture, and Phyllis's valentines, the rooms were transformed. "I wouldn't know them myself" was Mrs. Farquharson's oft-repeated comment.
Of course you have read "Old Valentines, and Other Poems," by John Landless; that is the disadvantage under which this story labors. You know, beforehand, that the little book won instant hearing; you know that "Lyrics" quickly followed, and the favorable verdict of the critics whose good opinion was most worth having. When that wonderful epic—"London: A Poem"—made its appearance, our poet was fairly on the royal road.
But you must pretend you don't know all this; and that "Lyrics" and "London" are not, at this moment, in plain sight on your reading-table. You must forget that you saw John's portrait in the last "Bookman." Unless you are good at make-believe, it is no fun at all. You must know nothing of the rosy glow on the peaks of Parnassus, so that you may struggle with John and Phyllis up the first, heart-breaking, storm-swept steeps.
We are back in their pretty rooms now. Are you there? Very well, then; we proceed.
They had lived at Mrs. Farquharson's for a fortnight. John worked steadily at his desk; Phyllis sewed. Poetry reads very smoothly on a printed page; but Phyllis had not realized that ten satisfying lines is a fair morning's stint; nor that a little book of synonyms is first aid in emergency cases; nor that one may talk as much as one pleases at times, but must be quiet as a mouse when the pen is scratching away so busily; she had to learn that when John's eyes were full of anguish he was probably at his best.
"Phyllis," said John, one morning, looking up from his writing.
"Yes, dear."
"That's all—just Phyllis," he replied, smiling.