"Always verses—nothing but verses," said Rosmore, who had drunk little and seemed to watch his companions with amusement.
"No woman was ever won by poetry," said a girl in Fellowes' ear. "Try some other way."
"What way?"
The girl whispered to him, laughing the while. She was very pretty, very innocent to look upon.
"Women must be carried by assault, gloriously, as a besieged city is," roared Branksome from the other end of the room. "The lover who attempts to starve them into surrender is a fool, and gets ridiculed for his pains. What do you say, Rosmore?"
"Nothing. There are many ladies who can explain my methods better than I can."
Mrs. Dearmer laughed, and desired a lesson forthwith.
"My dear lady, there would be too many lovers to call me to account for my presumption," Rosmore answered.
"Branksome is right," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Take a woman by force or not at all. She loves a desperate man. His desperation and overriding of all convention do homage to her. I never yet met the virtue that could stand against such an assault."
"She is right, Sydney," whispered the girl to Fellowes, her hands suddenly clasped round his arm.