his surprise, he found
himself no longer alone. Was it the Muse in dainty modern costume and
delicately tinted cheek? Yes! it was one of those discarded Muses who
sometimes remain upon the poet's hands as Fates.

When she raised her veil she certainly looked more of a Fate than a Muse.
Her expression was not agreeable. The poet, afterwards describing the
incident and remembering his Dante, spoke of her in an allegorical sonnet
as 'lady of terrible aspect,' and symbolised her as Nemesis.

He now addressed her as 'Annette,' and in his voice were four notes of
exclamation. She came closer to him, and very quietly, but with an accent
that was the very quintessence of Ibsenism, made the somewhat mercantile
statement: 'I have come for my half-profits!'

'Half-profits! What do you mean? Are you mad?'

'Not in the least! I want my share in the profits of all this pretty
poetry,' and she contemptuously ran her fingers over the several slim
volumes on the poet's shelves which represented his own contribution to
English literature.

Rondel began to comprehend, but he was as yet too surprised to answer.

'Don't you understand?' she went on. 'It takes two to make poetry like
yours--

"They steal their song the lips that sing
From lips that only kiss and cling."

Do you remember? Have I quoted correctly? Yes, here it is!' taking down a
volume entitled _Liber Amoris_, the passionate confession which had first
brought the poet his fame. As a matter of fact, several ladies had 'stood'
for this series, but the poet had artfully generalised them into one
supreme Madonna, whom Annette believed to be herself. Indeed, she had
furnished the warmest and the most tragic colouring. Rondel, however, had
for some time kept his address a secret from Annette. But the candle set
upon a hill cannot be hid: fame has its disadvantages. To a man with
creditors or any other form of 'a past,' it is no little dangerous to have
his portrait in the _Review of Reviews_. A well-known publisher is an
ever-present danger. By some such means Annette had found her poet. The
papers could not be decorated with reviews of his verse, and she not come
across some of them. Indeed, she had, with burning cheek and stormy bosom,
recognised herself in many an intimate confession. It was her hair, her
face, all her beauty, he sang, though the poems were dedicated to another.

She turned to another passage as she stood there--'How pretty it sounds
_in poetry