"If you'd asked me," said Poppy, "I should have said he had a pretty
good opinion of himself. What do you say, Dicky?"

"Sweet!" sang the canary in one pure, penetrating note, the voice of
Innocence itself.

"Isn't he rakish?" But Poppy got no answer from the sonneteer. He had
wheeled round from her, carried away in the triumph and rapture of the
sestette. His steps marked the beat of the iambics, he turned on his
heel at the end of every line. For the moment he was sober, as men
count sobriety.

"For he I serve hath paced Heaven's golden floor,
And chanted with the Seraphims' glad choir;
Lo! All his wings are plumed with fervent fire;
He hath twain that bear him upward evermore,
With twain he veils his holy eyes before
The mystery of his own divine desire.

"Does it remind you of anything?" he asked. It struck her as odd that
he seemed to realize her presence with difficulty.

"No, I can't say that I ever heard anything like it in my life."

"Well, the idea's bagged from Dante--I mean Dante-gabrier-rossetti.
But he doesn't want it as badly as I do. In fac', I don' think he
wants it at all where he is now. If he does, he can take any of mine
in exchange. You bear me out, Poppy--I invite the gentleman to step
down and make 's own s'lection: Nobody can say I plagiarize
anyborry--anyborry but myself."