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"I mean there is only one Neapolitan ice left." "Well, bring that. I don't really want one." He watched Mrs. Glamorys daintily devouring the solitary ice, and felt a certain pathos about the parti-coloured oblong, a something of the haunting sadness of "The Last Rose of Summer." It would make a graceful, serio-comic triolet, he was thinking.
Not that her passion in any way abated, or her romantic resolution really altered: it was only that her conception of time and place and ways and means was dizzily mutable. But after nigh six months of palpitating negotiations with the adorable Mrs. Glamorys, the poet, in a moment of dejection, penned the prose apophthegm, 'It is of no use trying to change a changeable person.
The profits of the Muse went to provide this room of old furniture and roses, this beautiful garden a-twinkle with Japanese lanterns, like gorgeous fire-flowers blossoming under the white crescent-moon of early June. Winifred Glamorys was not literary herself. She was better than a poetess, she was a poem.
The elms were in their glory, the birds were singing briskly, the water sparkled, the sunlit sward stretched fresh and green it was the loveliest, coolest moment of the afternoon. John instinctively turned down a leafy avenue. Nature and Love! What more could poet ask? "No, we can't have tea by the Kiosk," Mrs. Glamorys protested.
He tried to soothe her, to caress her, but she repulsed him. "Go to your yacht to your miserable shimmering waters. I shall spend my honeymoon here alone.... You discovered I was Irish." She came "to meet John Lefolle," but John Lefolle did not know he was to meet Winifred Glamorys.
'I mean there is only one Neapolitan ice left. 'Well, bring that. I don't really want one. He watched Mrs. Glamorys daintily devouring the solitary ice, and felt a certain pathos about the parti-coloured oblong, a something of the haunting sadness of 'The Last Rose of Summer'. It would make a graceful, serio-comic triolet, he was thinking.
Winifred Glamorys, however, was reputed to have a tongue that matched her eye; paralleling with whimsies and epigrams its freakish fires and witcheries, and, assuredly, flitting in her white gown through the dark balmy garden, she seemed the very spirit of moonlight, the subtle incarnation of night and roses.
Glamorys was right once more. Since Providence had been good enough to rescue them, why should they fly in its face? A little patience, and a blameless happiness lay before them. Let him not blind himself to the immense relief he really felt at being spared social obloquy. After all, a poet could be unconventional in his work he had no need of the practical outlet demanded for the less gifted.
Some, who had neglected their tutor all the term, now strove to absorb his omniscience in a sitting. On the Monday, John Lefolle was good-naturedly giving a special audience to a muscular dunce, trying to explain to him the political effects of the Crusades, when there was a knock at the sitting-room door, and the scout ushered in Mrs. Glamorys.
The profits of the Muse went to provide this room of old furniture and roses, this beautiful garden a-twinkle with Japanese lanterns, like gorgeous fire-flowers blossoming under the white crescent-moon of early June. Winifred Glamorys was not literary herself. She was better than a poetess, she was a poem.
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