a campaign for the presidency of a woman’s club,” said Ravenel, quietly. “Now, there is a poem—if you will allow me to call it that—of my own in this number of the magazine.”
“Read it to me,” said Sammy, watching a cloud of pipe-smoke he had just blown out the window.
Ravenel was no greater than Achilles. No one is. There is bound to be a spot. The Somebody-or-Other must take hold of us somewhere when she dips us in the Something-or-Other that makes us invulnerable. He read aloud this verse in the magazine:
(White rose, that spake of worth);
And one you placed upon your breast—
(Red rose, love’s seal of birth).
You plucked another from its stem—
(Tea rose, that means for aye);
And one you gave—that bore for me
The thorns of memory.”
“That’s a crackerjack,” said Sammy, admiringly.
“There are five more verses,” said Ravenel, patiently sardonic. “One naturally pauses at the end of each. Of course———”
“Oh, let’s have the rest, old man,” shouted Sammy, contritely, “I didn’t mean to cut you off. I’m not much of a poetry expert, you know. I never saw a poem that didn’t look like it ought to have terminal
[135]
