‘Yes; now I come to think of it, I heard of two more, great friends of Argyll and Hamilton and of Mr. Churbett, whom I saw there. Their names are D’Oyley; Bryson, the younger brother, is a poet; at any rate these are some of his verses which Mr. Churbett handed to me apropos of our lives here, shutting out all thoughts but the austerely practical. Yes; I haven’t lost them.’
‘So you talk of cheese-presses and bring home poetry! Is that your idea of the practical? I vote that Rosamond reads them out while we are having tea. Gracious! Ever so many verses.’
‘They seem original; and not so many of one’s neighbours could write them in any part of the world,’ said Rosamond. ‘I will read them out, if Annabel will promise not to interrupt in the midst of the most pathetic part.’
‘I am all attention,’ said Annabel, throwing herself into an easy-chair. ‘I wonder what sort of a man Mr. D’Oyley is, and what coloured eyes he has. I like to know all about authors.’
‘Never saw him; go on, Rosamond,’ said Wilfred, and the elder sister, thus adjured, commenced—
A FRAGMENT
Deem we our waking dreams
But shadows from the deep;
And do the offspring of the mind
In barrenness descend