He seems to have plucked a flower from the other side
Of the social hedge.’
‘A flower, a flower,’ exclaimed
My German student,—his own eyes full-blown
Bent on her. He was twenty, certainly.
Sir Blaise resumed with gentle arrogance,
As if he had dropped his alms into a hat,
And had the right to counsel,—‘My young friend,
I doubt your ablest man’s ability
To get the least good or help meet for him,
For pagan phalanstery or Christian home,
From such a flowery creature.’
‘Beautiful!’
My student murmured, rapt,—‘Mark how she stirs
Just waves her head, as if a flower indeed,
Touched far off by the vain breath of our talk.’
At which that bilious Grimwald, (he who writes
For the Renovator) who had seemed absorbed
Upon the table-book of autographs,
(I dare say mentally he crunched the bones
Of all those writers, wishing them alive
To feel his tooth in earnest) turned short round
With low carnivorous laugh,—‘A flower, of course!
She neither sews nor spins,—and takes no thought
Of her garments . . falling off.’
The student flinched,
Sir Blaise, the same; then both, drawing back their chairs
As if they spied black-beetles on the floor,
