“I never heard of this. Where did you get it?”
“Guy Daventry left it here by mistake yesterday. I must give it to him to-night.”
Dion opened the book, and saw on the title page: “Cynthia Clarke, Constantinople, October 1896,” written in a curiously powerful, very upright caligraphy.
“It doesn’t belong to Guy.”
“No; it was lent to him by his client, Mrs. Clarke.”
Dion turned some of the leaves of the book, began to read and was immediately absorbed.
“By Jove, it’s wonderful, it’s simply splendid!” he said in a moment. “Just listen to this:
“True to thy nature, to thyself,
Fame and disfame nor hope, nor fear;
Enough to thee the still small voice
Aye thundering in thine inner ear.
From self-approval seek applause:
What ken not men thou kennest thou!
Spurn every idol others raise:
Before thine own ideal bow.”
He met the dark eyes of Beatrice.
“You care for that?”