Rosamund, and for that matter, all Sid’s world, was well acquainted with the main lines of his amatorious history, and knew something of the various divinities who had figured in it. Besides, Sid, a promising young lawyer, with known literary leanings, had put his heart on record beyond withdrawal by the publication of a volume of verse entitled “The Nine Muses.” The volume consisted of love-verses addressed to various ladies to whom Sid had from time to time, or simultaneously, been devoted; and though, of course, they figured under fanciful names, their identities were no secret to the learned gossips of Sid’s circle. This book had been a thorn in Sid’s side since he had met and loved Rosamund, a thorn which she sometimes amused herself by using to his discomfiture. She had the volume with her this afternoon, and as she turned to it, with malicious merriment in her eye, Sid knew that she meditated some of her merciless raillery.
“I do wish, Rosamund, you would let me forget that wretched book. I wish it were at the bottom of the sea. I’ll have the whole edition destroyed. I will, to-morrow....”
“O that would be sacrilege!” interrupted Rosamund, mockingly; “besides, I should still have my copy.”
“I will manage to get it from you,” retorted Sid, making a clutch at his printed past.
“Even if you should,” answered Rosamund, retaining possession of the book, “I should still remember some of the poems by heart. They are so beautiful.... This, for instance, to ‘Myrtilla’....”
“Do be quiet, Rosamund....”
“No, I insist, ... I don’t think you know how beautiful they are yourself. Listen:
I know a little starlit spring—
Last night I leaned upon the brink,
And to the dimpled surface pressed
My hallowed lips to drink.
And now the sun is up, and I
Am with a dream athirst;
O was it good to drink that spring,
Or was the spring accurst?
Accurst, that he who drinks therein
Shall long, even as I,
To drink again, yet never drink
Again until he die.