(Pray go there, if ever you go to Serchon!) The two horsemen, well pleased to have reach'd it, alighted And exchanged their last greetings. The Frenchman invited Lord Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred declined. He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he dined In his own rooms that night. With an unquiet eye He watch'd his companion depart; nor knew why, Beyond all accountable reason or measure, He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure. win her.' 'If he love her,' he thought, let him Then he turn'd to the future-and order'd his dinner. XVIII. O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth, The land of his birth; Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some ache Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless, his best ease, As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes. We may XIX. live without poetry, music, and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends; books; we may live without But civilized man cannot live without cooks. He may live without books,-what is knowledge but grieving? He may live without hope,-what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love,-what is passion but pin ing? But where is the man that can live without dining? XX. Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a note 'Your last letter has reach'd me,' she wrote. 'This evening, alas! I must go to the ball, And shall not be at home till too late for your call; 'But to-morrow, at any rate, sans faute, at One 'You will find me at home, and will find me alone. 'Meanwhile, let me thank you sincerely, milord, For the honour with which you adhere to your word. 'Yes, I thank you, Lord Alfred! To-morrow, then. 'L.' XXI. I find myself terribly puzzled to tell The feelings with which Alfred Vargrave flung down This note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must own That I think he, himself, could have hardly explain'd Those feelings exactly. 'Yes, yes,' as he drain'd The glass down, he mutter'd, Jack's right, after all: • The coquette !' Does milord mean to go to the ball?' Ask'd the waiter, who linger'd. 'Perhaps. I don't know. 'You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go.' XXII. Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs, When season'd by love, which no rancour disturbs, A man should sit down to a dinner, each one. Over the fruit and the wine Undisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening was fine. Lord Alfred his chair by the window had set, And languidly lighted his small cigarette. The window was open. The warm air without Waved the flame of the candles. The moths were about. In the gloom he sat gloomy. XXIII. Gay sounds from below Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago, And night deepen'd apace; through the dark avenues The lamps twinkled bright; and by threes, and by twos, The idlers of Serchon were strolling at will, As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window-sill, Watching above, From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he walk'd To mix with those groups, and now nodded, now talk'd, To the young Paris dandies, Lord Alfred discern'd, By the way hats were lifted, and glances were turn'd, That this unknown acquaintance, now bound for the ball, Was a person of rank or of fashion; for all Whom he bow'd to in passing, or stopp'd with and chatter'd, His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom. XXV. Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room. Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin : Of himself of his past life, his future, his present: Of the gay world, so sad! life, so sweet and so sour! Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no doubt, XXVI. I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilette, That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, and flung by in a pet, |