OVERHEARD IN A CONSERVATORY.
He (after a pause):
Dear, are you angry?
She:
Yes, though not at you,
But at myself. Of course, we know it's true
That when a man respects a girl . . .
He (interrupting):
I thought
You d say that. It's the nonsense girls are taught.
You know, as well as I do, I revere
You more than any other woman, dear.
She (indignantly):
You d not have done it to Elfrida Hood.
He:
Immortal gods! I shouldn't think I would.
She (haughtily):
If this but seems to you fit food for jest
I say no more. Silence were plainly best.
He (very seriously):
Dear, if I jest, it is because I read
The hopelessness of aught that I could plead
In your stern eyes, which righteous wrath be tray.
Were you another woman, I should say
That you were fair, and I, it seems, was mad,
But that the last long waltz that we had had
Might very well have turned a wiser head.
A hundred things like this I might have said
To women who would take them as excuse.
You think none possible—so what's the use?
She:
Then why discuss it further? Let us go.
He:
One minute!
I should like you first to know
I did not think that this would be the end
When, two weeks since, you said you'd be my friend.
She (reflectively):
Only two weeks.
He:
Not long, tis true, and yet,
You've stopped my doing much I should regret.
Nor should I murmur that you teach how far
More hard than others all good women are.
She (emphatically):
That is not true, indeed it is not true.
Some men I could forgive this, but not you.
You would go home, and smile, and think I meant—
I viewed it merely as a . . .
He (politely):
Precedent!
Was that the word? Indeed, in this respect
You wrong, to say the least, my intellect.
If you forgave me, I should understand
Just what it meant . . .
She (hastily):
Oh, please let go my hand!
Here is papa, who comes, I know, to say
That it is late, and time to go away.
He:
I do not care a bit how late it is,
I only know we cannot part like this.
Show me, at least, you do not doubt my sorrow.
She (hesitatingly):
Well come as usual at five to-morrow.
Dear, are you angry?
She:
Yes, though not at you,
But at myself. Of course, we know it's true
That when a man respects a girl . . .
He (interrupting):
I thought
You d say that. It's the nonsense girls are taught.
You know, as well as I do, I revere
You more than any other woman, dear.
She (indignantly):
You d not have done it to Elfrida Hood.
He:
Immortal gods! I shouldn't think I would.
She (haughtily):
If this but seems to you fit food for jest
I say no more. Silence were plainly best.
He (very seriously):
Dear, if I jest, it is because I read
The hopelessness of aught that I could plead
In your stern eyes, which righteous wrath be tray.
Were you another woman, I should say
That you were fair, and I, it seems, was mad,
But that the last long waltz that we had had
Might very well have turned a wiser head.
A hundred things like this I might have said
To women who would take them as excuse.
You think none possible—so what's the use?
She:
Then why discuss it further? Let us go.
He:
One minute!
I should like you first to know
I did not think that this would be the end
When, two weeks since, you said you'd be my friend.
She (reflectively):
Only two weeks.
He:
Not long, tis true, and yet,
You've stopped my doing much I should regret.
Nor should I murmur that you teach how far
More hard than others all good women are.
She (emphatically):
That is not true, indeed it is not true.
Some men I could forgive this, but not you.
You would go home, and smile, and think I meant—
I viewed it merely as a . . .
He (politely):
Precedent!
Was that the word? Indeed, in this respect
You wrong, to say the least, my intellect.
If you forgave me, I should understand
Just what it meant . . .
She (hastily):
Oh, please let go my hand!
Here is papa, who comes, I know, to say
That it is late, and time to go away.
He:
I do not care a bit how late it is,
I only know we cannot part like this.
Show me, at least, you do not doubt my sorrow.
She (hesitatingly):
Well come as usual at five to-morrow.
A. D.