"That is the title, eh?"
"Yes, sir. And also the first line."
Hamilton Beamish started.
"Is it vers libre?"
"Sir?"
"Doesn't it rhyme?"
"No, sir. I understood you to say that rhymes were an outworn convention."
"Did I really say that?"
"You did, indeed, sir. And a great convenience I found it. It seems to make poetry quite easy."
Hamilton Beamish looked at him perplexedly. He supposed he must have spoken the words which the other had quoted, and yet that he should deliberately have wished to exclude a fellow-creature from the pure joy of rhyming "heart" with "Cupid's dart" seemed to him in his present uplifted state inconceivable.