What female heart can gold despise?
What Cat's averse to fish?

"Your husband doubtless knows the poem, Mrs. Landless. Mrs. F. tells me
he writes poetry himself. Some one once said of Gray that no other poet
entered the portals of fame with so slender a volume under his arm. He
wrote very little, Mrs. Landless, but he polished every letter of every
word until the lines were flawless as the facets of a diamond."

"Did puss get the fish?" asked Phyllis, stooping to stroke Selima's
sleek, gray side again.

"No," replied Mr. Rowlandson. "'The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd,
she tumbled headlong in.' But cats have nine lives, you know.

"Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god
Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A Fav'rite has no friend.

"Now comes the moral," he continued. "Poets, in those days realized
their obligation to society: to tell it something for its own good."

His eyes twinkled again; bright blue they were; friendly eyes, Phyllis
thought.

"From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes,
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold."

Mr. Rowlandson concluded, smiling. Phyllis returned his smile. The task
before her was still difficult, but she felt she had known this dear old
man a long, long time. She took the plunge.

"Mr. Rowlandson, I came in to thank you for letting me see your
patch-boxes and fans; and to thank you, also, for having directed Mr.
Landless to Farquharson's house. But there was something else,--too."
She caught her breath prettily, in that quick way of hers. "It is a--a
matter of--of business."

He bowed slightly, and awaited the expression of her wish. "I shall
recommend something of Barrie's; or else 'Lorna Doone,'" he reflected.

"May I be seated?" asked Phyllis.

"My me! My me!" exclaimed Mr. Rowlandson. "Here is a chair. I beg your
pardon Mrs. Landless." He seated himself on the third step of the
convenient ladder, leaning against the high, book-laden shelves.

"You cannot imagine the nature of my errand," began Phyllis. It was
dreadfully hard to go on. Her eyes were brimming, but they should not
overflow if she could help it.

Mr. Rowlandson looked at the parcel in her lap; and then at her face;
and