e. "It is an old joke against them."

"Ah, but I think the race is changing its characteristics in these days,
and going in for cheerfulness and comfort. There is Mr. Pemberton, for
instance--how aggravatingly prosperous he looks! Do you see how he beams
with good nature on all the world? I should say that he is a jovial
man--and yet, you know, he has been down there, as they said of Dante."

"Perhaps it goes by opposites. What I have read of Mr. Walcott's poetry
is rather light than sad--except one or two pieces in _The Decade_."

"Poor man! I think there is another cause for his melancholy. He lost
his wife two or three years ago, and I have been told that she was a
charming creature, and that her death upset him terribly. He has only
just begun to go about again."

"How very unfortunate!" said Lettice. "And that makes it still more
strange that his poems should be so slightly tinged with melancholy. He
must live quite a double life. Most men would give expression to their
personal griefs, and publish them for everybody to read; but he keeps
them sacred. That is much more interesting."

"I should think it is more difficult. It seems natural that a poet,
being in grief, should write the poetry of grief."

"Yes--no doubt it is more difficult."

And Lettice, on her way home and afterwards, found herself pondering on
the problem of a man who, recently robbed of a well-beloved wife, wrote
a thousand verses without a single reference to her.

She took down his "Measures and Monologues," and read it through, to see
what he had to say about women.

There were a few cynical verses from Heine, and three bitter stanzas on
the text from Balzac:--"Vous nous promettiez le bonheur, et finissiez
par nous jeter dans une precipice;" but not one tender word applied to a
woman throughout the book. It was certainly strange; and Lettice felt
that her curiosity was natural and legitimate.

Alan Walcott, in fact, became quite an interesting study. During the
next few months Lettice had many opportunities of arriving at a better
knowledge of his character, and she amused herself by quietly pushing
her inquiries into what was for her a comparatively new field of
speculation. The outcome of the research was not very profitable. The
more she saw of him the more he puzzled her. Qualities which appeared
one day seemed to be entirely wanting when they next met. In some subtle
manner she was aware that even his feelings and inclinations co