Alice: An Adultery

“ Four days more,” he answered, thrilling with excitement, “ and all my dreams will come true— until I wake. But you can serve me, if indeed—— Did you hear me spouting poetry ?” I nodded, and lit my pipe. He watched me narrowly while the match illuminated my face. “ What poetry ?” I told him Shelley. “ Do you read Ibsen ?” he queried, keening visibly. After a moment’s pause : “ He is the Sophocles of manners,” I said, rewarded royally for months of weary waiting. My strange com- panion sat up transfigured. “ The Hour,” he murmured, “ and the Man ! . . . What of Tennyson ?” “ Which Tennyson ?” I asked. The answer seemed to please him. “ In Memoriam ?” he replied. “ He is a neurasthenic counter-jumper.” “ And of the Idylls ?” “ Sir Thomas did no wrong ; can impotence excuse his posthumous emasculation ?” vii