thou lovely flower,
I think of thee most every hour,
With eyes of grey and eyes of blue,
That change with every passing hue,
Thy lovely fingers beautifully typing,
How sweet and fragrant is thy writing!

He thought he was reciting to himself, but that was not the case.
People turned and watched him, and when he passed the green doorway of
Dr. Harkley Bawkley, the eminent brain specialist, they were visibly
disappointed.

He did not unlock the rosewood door of his flat, but rang the silver
bell.

He preferred this course. Ali, his Coast servant, in his new livery of
blue and silver, made the opening of the door something only less
picturesque than the opening of Parliament. This intention may not
have been unconnected with the fact that there were two or three young
ladies, and very young at that, on the landing, waiting for the door of
the opposite flat to open.

Ali opened the door. The lower half of him was blue and silver, the
upper half was Oxford shirt and braces, for he had been engaged in
cleaning the silver.

"What the deuce do you mean by it?" demanded Bones wrathfully.
"Haven't I given you a good uniform, you blithering jackass? What the
deuce do you mean by opening the door, in front of people, too, dressed
like a--a--dashed naughty boy?"

"Silverous forks require lubrication for evening repast," said Ali
reproachfully.

Bones stalked on to his study.

It was a lovely study, with a carpet of beautiful blue. It was a study
of which a man might be proud. The hangings were of silk, and the
suite was also of silk, and also of blue silk. He sat down at his
Louis XVI. table, took a virgin pad, and began to write. The
inspiration was upon him, and he worked at top speed.

"I saw a litle bird--a litle bird--a litle bird, floating in the sky,"
he wrote. "Ever so high! Its pretty song came down, down to me, and
it sounded like your voice the other afternoon at tea, at tea. And in
its flite I remembered the night when you came home to me."

He paused at the last, because Marguerite Whitland had never come home
to him, certainly not at night. The proprieties had to be observed,
and he changed the last few lines to: "I remember the day when you came
away to Margate on the sea, on the sea."

He had not seen his book of poems for a week, but there was a blank
page at the end into which the last, and possibly the greatest, might
go. He pulled the drawer open. It was empty. There wa