She had told everybody that she might possibly—just possibly—be able to get her Irish poet to recite some of his poems after dinner, and she had a hard time to keep him from starting before she had drawn him out. A wee wizened man like a monkey, bent in the monkey's attitude just before the jerk of the chain makes it begin to dance, he stood there, chanting his poems in Gaelic, chanting away with his eyes shut.
The East Indian sang, too, translating for them.
"Sing on! The birds in the forest sing, nor care whether anyone hears them. The flowers in the woodland bloom, nor care that there is no one to inhale their fragrance. Give all of thyself, no matter if thou perish"
Oh, that is true, Christabel thought, looking towards Nick Portal. That is true!
Sitting in the great Venetian chair in which she never crossed her knees, hearing, "Hush! What is she saying?" when she spoke, she imagined herself going across the room to him,
