And all our meetings broken in upon,
No more of these rare moments must be spent
In vain discussions, or in argument.
I wish Miss Trevor was in—Jericho!
(You see the selfishness begins to show.)
She wants to see you?—So do I: but she
Will gain her wish, by taking you from me.
‘Come all the same?’ that means I’ll be allowed
To realize that ‘three can make a crowd.’
I do not like to feel myself de trop.
With two girl cronies would I not be so?
My ring would interrupt some private chat.
You’d ask me in and take my cane and hat,
And speak about the lovely summer day,
And think—‘The lout! I wish he’d kept away.’
Miss Trevor’d smile, but just to hide a pout
And count the moments till I was shown out.
And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing
That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing,
No, thanks, Maurine! The iron hand of Fate,
(Or otherwise Miss Trevor’s dainty fingers,)
Will bar my entrance into Eden’s gate;
And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers
At heaven’s portal, paying the price of sin,
Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in.”
He looked so melancholy sitting there,
I laughed outright. “How well you act a part;
You look the very picture of despair!
You’ve missed your calling, sir! suppose you start
Upon a starring tour, and carve your name
With Booth’s and Barrett’s on the heights of Fame
But now, tabooing nonsense, I shall send
For you to help me entertain my friend,
Unless you come without it. ‘Cronies?’ True,
Wanting our ‘private chats’ as cronies do.
And we’ll take those, while you are reading Greek,
Or writing ‘Lines to Dora’s brow’ or ‘cheek.’
But when you have an hour or two of leisure,
Call as you now do, and afford like pleasure.
For never yet did heaven’s sun shine on,
Or stars discover, that phenomenon,
In any country, or in any clime:
Two maids so bound, by ties of mind and heart,
They did not feel the heavy weight of time
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