hung breathless on Solon's denunciations of me, whispered chattily with Eva Mclntyre during my rendition of "Bernardo del Carpio."
Later events, however, convinced me that I swam never in Solon's ken as a rival for her smiles. His own triumph was too easy, too widely heralded. In the second week of her coming, was there not a rhyme shouted on the playground, full in the hearing of both?
"First the post and then the gate,
Solon Denney and Lucy Tait."
Was not this followed by one more subtle, more pointed, more ribald?
"Solon's mad and I'm glad,
And I know what will please him;
A bottle of wine to make him shine
And Lucy Tait to tease him!"
I thought there was an inhuman, a devilish deftness in the rhymes. The mighty mechanism of English verse had been employed to proclaim my remoteness from my love.
And yet the gods were once graciously good to me. One wondrous evening before hope died utterly I survived the ordeal of walking home with her from church.
She came with her uncle and aunt, and I, present by the gods permission, surmised that she might leave them and go to her own home alone when church was out. Through that service I worshipped
