Verty sat down tuning his violin, and looking at Mr. Roundjacket, with
a smile.

"Felicity and bliss are things which spring from poetry and women;
convertible terms, you savage, but often dissevered. Suppose, now, you
wrote a great poem, and read it to the lady of your affections, and
she said it was better than the Iliad of Homer,--how would you feel,
sir?"

"I don't know," Verty said.

"You would feel happiness, sir."

"I don't think I would understand her. Who was Iliad, and what was
Homer?"

Mr. Roundjacket flourished his ruler, despairingly.

"You'll never write a poem, and you'll never be in love!" he said,
with solemn emphasis.

"Oh, you are wrong!" said Verty, laying his violin on the desk, and
caressing Longears. "I think I'm in love now, Mr. Roundjacket!"

"What?"

"I'm in love."

"With whom?"