maybe has been inspired and perfected by a hundred other roses, which
are at the moment pot-pourri--ah, the shy bosom-song of the rose ...'

Here the Sphinx paused, and added abruptly--

'Well--there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!'

'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!'

'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of
course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but
half-born--humourists always prefer to deliver themselves--so I shook my
head.

'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of
her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey' and
'Stupid,'--which I recognised and meekly bore.

'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But
don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no
nightingales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is
always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the
nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.'

'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx.

'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses--but ...
but....'

'But what?'