On zoologic soirées? Not in the least.
Roar softly at me; I am frivolous,
I dare say; I have played at lions, too
Like other women of my class,—but now
I meet my lion simply as Androcles
Met his . . when at his mercy.’
So, she bent
Her head, as queens may mock,—then lifting up
Her eyelids with a real grave queenly look,
Which ruled, and would not spare, not even herself,—
‘I think you have a cousin:—Romney Leigh.’
‘You bring a word from him?’—my eyes leapt up
To the very height of hers,— a word from him?’
‘I bring a word about him, actually.
But first,’—she pressed me with her urgent eyes—
‘You do not love him,—you?’
‘You’re frank at least
In putting questions, madam,’ I replied
‘I love my cousin cousinly—no more.’
‘I guessed as much. I’m ready to be frank
In answering also, if you’ll question me,
Or even with something less. You stand outside,
You artist women, of the common sex;
You share not with us, and exceed us so
Perhaps by what you’re mulcted in, your hearts
Being starved to make your heads: so run the old
