Blame him not. There are more things in a man's heart than ever get
in through his thoughts.

On a sudden, a soft voice behind him startled him.

'Can a poor cockney artist venture himself along this timber without
falling in?'

Lancelot turned.

'Come out to me, and if you stumble, the naiads will rise out of
their depths, and "hold up their pearled wrists" to save their
favourite.'

The artist walked timidly out along the beams, and sat down beside
Lancelot, who shook him warmly by the hand.

'Welcome, Claude Mellot, and all lovely enthusiasms and symbolisms!
Expound to me, now, the meaning of that water-lily leaf and its
grand simple curve, as it lies sleeping there in the back eddy.'

'Oh, I am too amused to philosophise. The fair Argemone has just
been treating me to her three hundred and sixty-fifth philippic
against my unoffending beard.'

'Why, what fault can she find with such a graceful and natural
ornament?'