gion of gross but glorious exaggeration, where his
wretched little Cockney passion assumed the proportions of a superb
romance. His soul that minute was the home of the purest, most exalted
emotions. Yes, he could certainly feel it coming on. Poppy's face was
growing bigger and bigger, opening out and blossoming like an enormous
flower.

"Nine minutes up. In another minute you go."

It seemed to him that Poppy was measuring time by pouring champagne
into little tumblers, and that she gave him champagne to drink. He
knew it was no use drinking it, for that thirst of his was
unquenchable; but he drank, for the sake of the illusion; and as he
drank it seemed to him that not only was Poppy worthy of all
adoration, but that his passion for her was no mere vulgar and earthly
passion; it was a glorious and immortal thing.

Poppy looked at him curiously. She was the soul of hospitality, but
it struck her that she was being a little too liberal with the
champagne.

"No, Razors. No more fizz. If I were to drink a drop more it would
spoil my little dance that always fetches the boys."

She turned her tumbler upside down in token of renunciation and led
the way into the front room. He followed her with enchanted feet. He
was now moving as in an Arabian Night's dream.

In the front room was a sofa--No, a divan, and on the divan the skin
of a Polar bear sprawling. Rickman and Poppy sat on the top of the
bear. Such a disreputable, out-of-elbow, cosmopolitan bear! His little
eye-holes were screwed up in a wicked wink, a wink that repudiated any
connection with his native waters of the Pole.

The house was very still. Behind his yellow gauze curtain the canary
stirred in his sleep. "Swe-eet," he murmured plaintively in his dream.

"Swe-eet, dicky!" echoed Poppy. Then because she had nothing to say
she began to sing. She sang the song of Simpson the tenor, Simpson the
master of tears.

"'Twas on the night our little byby died,
And Bill, 'e comes, and, 'Sal,' 'e sez,'look ere,
I've signed a pledge,'ser 'e, 'agains the beer.
'D'ye see?'
Sez 'e.
'And wot I 'ope ter syve
Will tittervyte 'is bloomin' little gryve.'
Then--Well--yo' should 'ave 'eard us 'ow we cried--
Like bloomin' kids--the--night--the byby--died.

"That song," said Poppy, "doesn't exactly suit my style of beauty. You
should have heard Simpey sing it. _That_ 'd 'ave given you something to
'owl for."

For Ric