"I am rather sorry, for she was very pretty; but the last straw she put upon me was too much. I couldn't—after that—no, I couldn't, really."
"What was it?" I said, laughing, as he shook his head dubiously and looked meditatively into the fire.
"Why, I sent her a sonnet—at least, no, a verse—and we were talking about it afterwards, I had written—"
'And leaning sideways, looks, and lifts
The tresses of her heavy hair.'
"See?"
I nodded.
"Well, she objected to the adjective 'heavy,' and wanted me to insert another. What word do you think she suggested?"
"Can't say at all. Golden, perhaps!"
"Worse!" he answered, with a groan. "Golden is hackneyed but still conceivable. No—Crimpy! my dear fellow! Think of it!"
I went into a fit of laughter.