CHAPTER XI: THE PARADISE OF POETS
We were talking of Love, Constancy, the Ideal. "Who ever loved like the
poets?" cried Lady Violet Lebas, her pure, pale cheek flushing. "Ah, if
ever I am to love, he shall be a singer!"
"Tenors are popular, very," said Lord Walter.
"I mean a poet," she answered witheringly.
Near them stood Mr. Witham, the author of "Heart's Chords Tangled."
"Ah," said he, "that reminds me. I have been trying to catch it all the
morning. That reminds me of my dream."
"Tell us your dream," murmured Lady Violet Lebas, and he told it.
"It was through an unfortunate but pardonable blunder," said Mr. Witham,
"that I died, and reached the Paradise of Poets. I had, indeed,
published volumes of verse, but with the most blameless motives. Other
poets were continually sending me theirs, and, as I could not admire
them, and did not like to reply by critical remarks, I simply printed
some rhymes for the purpose of sending them to the gentlemen who favoured
me with theirs. I always wrote on the fly-leaf a quotation from the
'Iliad,' about giving copper in exchange for gold; and the few poets who
could read Greek were gratified, while the others, probably, thought a
compliment was intended. Nothing could be less culpable or pretentious,
but, through some mistake on the part of Charon, I was drafted off to the
Paradise of Poets.
"Outside the Golden Gate a number of Shadows were waiting, in different
attitudes of depression and languor.
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