ish that. The older one grows the more one likes
indecency. Hah, hah! I'm laughing. What at? You said nothing, nor did
the old gentleman opposite.... But suppose--suppose--Hush!"

The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the
trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird
singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow,
sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight. Woven
together, inextricably commingled, bound in pain and strewn in
sorrow--crash!

The boat sinks. Rising, the figures ascend, but now leaf thin, tapering
to a dusky wraith, which, fiery tipped, draws its twofold passion from
my heart. For me it sings, unseals my sorrow, thaws compassion, floods
with love the sunless world, nor, ceasing, abates its tenderness but
deftly, subtly, weaves in and out until in this pattern, this
consummation, the cleft ones unify; soar, sob, sink to rest, sorrow and
joy.

Why then grieve? Ask what? Remain unsatisfied? I say all's been settled;
yes; laid to rest under a coverlet of rose leaves, falling. Falling. Ah,
but they cease. One rose leaf, falling from an enormous height, like a
little parachute dropped from an invisible balloon, turns, flutters
waveringly. It won't reach us.

"No, no. I noticed nothing. That's the worst of music--these silly
dreams. The second violin was late, you say?"

"There's old Mrs. Munro, feeling her way out--blinder each year, poor
woman--on this slippery floor."

Eyeless old age, grey-headed Sphinx.... There she stands on the
pavement, beckoning, so sternly, the red omnibus.

"How lovely! How well they play! How--how--how!"

The tongue is but a clapper. Simplicity itself. The feathers in the hat
next me are bright and pleasing as a child's rattle. The leaf on the
plane-tree flashes green through the chink in the curtain. Very strange,
very exciting.

"How--how--how!" Hush!

These are the lovers on the grass.

"If, madam, you will take my hand----"

"Sir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our bodies
in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls."

"Then these are the embraces of our souls." The lemons nod assent. The
swan pushes from the bank and floats dreaming into mid stream.

"But to return. He followed me down the corridor, and, as we turned the
corner, trod on the lace of my petticoat. What could I do but cry 'Ah!'
and stop to finger it? At which he dre