His voice broke at the end, not so much from the intrinsic beauty of the lines as from perceiving Mr. Chester close at hand, grinning like the fabled pussy-cat of Cheshire, except that he did not fade away, leaving only the grin.
Elaine felt the alien presence and looked around. Woman-like, she quickly grasped the situation.
“I have been having a rare treat, Mr. Chester,” she said, in her smoothest tones. “Mr. Perkins has very kindly been reading to me his beautiful Sonnet on Sleep, composed during a period of wakefulness last night. Did you hear it? Is it not a most unusual sonnet?”
“It is, indeed,” answered Dick, dryly. “I never before had the privilege of hearing one that contained only twelve lines. Dante and Petrarch and Shakespeare and all those other ducks put fourteen lines in every blamed sonnet, for good measure.”
Hurt to the quick, the sensitive poet walked away.
“How can you speak so!” cried Elaine, angrily. “Is not Mr. Perkins privileged to create a form?”
“To create a form, yes,” returned Dick, easily, “but not to monkey with an old one. There’s a difference.”
Elaine would have followed the injured one had not Dick interfered. He caught her hand quickly, a new and unaccountable lump in his throat suddenly choking his utterance. “I say, Elaine,” he said, huskily, “you’re not thinking of hooking up with that red-furred lobster, are you?”
“I do not know,” responded Elaine, with icy dignity, “what your uncouth language may mean, but I tolerate no interference whatever with my personal affairs.” In a moment she was gone, and Dick watched the slender, pink-clad figure returning to the house with ill-concealed emotion.
All Summer, so far, he and Elaine had been good friends. They had laughed and joked and worked together in a care-free, happy-go-lucky fashion. The arrival of Mr. Perkins and his sudden admiration of Elaine had crystallised the situation. Dick knew now what caused the violent antics of his heart—a peaceful and well-behaved organ which had never before been so disturbed by a woman.