ed
All in jewelled dress,
And leaning on the balustrade
She wept with bitterness,
For facing her there stood a maid
Of rival loveliness.

Once she had been indifferent
To languishment or guile,
But when I argued with intent
To hold her by a smile,
Upon my eyes her own were bent
For quite a little while.

The lady raised her fluttering hands.
"The night is cold," she said,
"For tropic men in northern lands,
For old maids still unwed,
And for the evil one who stands
In heaven when he's dead."

She turned and gazed upon that face
As lovely as her own,
The poise of beauty and of grace
That matched her grace alone....
And in that close and silent place
I heard the lady moan.

I held the lady to my breast
And kissed her mouth and eyes.
She sighed and snuggled down to rest
Without the least surprise,
While I told tales of sweet unrest
That sounded very wise.

"They say I'm mad," she whispered then,
"I weep for dear despair,
No matter where I go, dark men
Follow me everywhere...."
To quiet her I kissed again
Her locks of golden hair.

"Great God!" she cried with finished grace,
"That woman whom I hate."
I looked and in a mirror's face
I saw the lady's mate.
Then quiet men of that strange place
Came down the halls of state.

They took the lady tenderly
Away from sound and sight.
I answered not. It seemed to me
As though they must be right.
So I smashed the mirror utterly
And fled into the night.

Chapter LXIX

And when Gud had finished reading the woman asked: "Is that all?"

And Gud looked at the poem in his hand and said sorrowfully, "That is
all."

"But that is quite comprehensible," said the woman, "for it is merely
one of Hersey's usual plagiarisms--a twittering parody of Rossetti's
'THE BLESSED DAMOSEL', and it is so simple."

"Do you understand it?" asked Gud.

"Of course, it merely means that the love of man is insufficient to
satisfy the yearning of woman, and so she must look into the mirror of
her own soul in search of greater spiritual joys. But alas, she is
shadowed by her sex consciousness as reflected in her beauty of the
flesh, and she can not escape that haunting shadow which finally drives
her mad. Is that not simple?"

To D. S.: I protest. This interpretation is entirely