head or tail out of 'Sordello.' There once was a man who said
there were only two intelligible lines in the poem--the first and the
last--and that both were lies. 'Who will, may hear Sordello's story
told,' and 'Who would, has heard Sordello's story told.' Don't worry
about not understanding it."

"Don't you?"

"Not a bit," said I.

"That's a comfort," she said, with a generous sigh of relief. "How well
you're looking!" she cried suddenly. "You're a different man. What have
you been doing to yourself?"

"I've grown quite alive."

"Good! Delightful! So am I. Quite alive now, thank you."

She looked it, in spite of the black outdoor costume. But there was a
dash of white at her throat and some white lilies of the valley in
her bosom, and a white feather in her great black hat poised with a
Gainsborough swagger on the mass of her bronze hair.

"It's the spring," she added.

"Yes," said I, "it's the spring."

She approached me and brushed a few specks of dust from my shoulder.

"You want a new suit of clothes, Simon."

"Dear me!" said I, glancing hastily over the blue serge suit in which I
had lounged at Mustapha Superieur. "I suppose I do."

It occurred to me that my wardrobe generally needed replenishing. I had
been unaccustomed to think of these things, the excellent Rogers and his
predecessors having done most of the thinking for me.

"I'll go to Poole's at once," said I.

And then it struck me, to my whimsical dismay, that in the present
precarious state of my finances, especially in view of my decision to
abandon political journalism in favour of I knew not what occupation, I
could not afford to order clothes largely from a fashionable tailor.

"I shouldn't have mentioned it," said Lola apologetically, "but you're
always so spick and span."

"And now I'm getting shabby!"

I threw back my head and laughed at the new and comical conception of
Simon de Gex down at heel.

"Oh, not shabby!" echoed Lola.

"Yes, my dear. The days of purple and fine linen are _vorbei_. You'll
have to put up with me in a threadbare coat and frayed cuffs and ragged
hems to my trousers."

Lola declared that I was talking rubbish.

"Not quite such rubbish as you may think, my dear. Shall you mind?"

"It would break my heart. But why do you talk so? You can't be--as
poor--as that?"

Her face manifested such tragic concern that I laughed. Besides, the
idea of personal poverty amused me. When I gave up my political wor