not, many other true lovers before and since--when they were
particularly happy, when some special piece of good luck had befallen
them, could think of no better paradise than a little dinner together in
their seventh-story heaven. 'Ah! wilderness were Paradise enow!'

To-night was obviously such an occasion. But, alas! where was the money
to come from? They didn't need much--for it is wonderful how happy you
can be on five shillings, if you only know how. At the same time it is
difficult to be happy on ninepence--which was the entire fortune of the
lovers at the moment. Beauty laughingly suggested that her celebrated
hair might prove worth the price of their dinner. The poet thought a
pawnbroker might surely be found to advance ten shillings on his
poem--the original MS. too,--else had they nothing to pawn, save a few
gold and silver dreams which they couldn't spare. What was to be done?
Sell some books, of course! It made them shudder to think how many poets
they had eaten in this fashion. It was sheer cannibalism--but what was
to be done? Their slender stock of books had been reduced entirely to
poetry. If there had only been a philosopher or a modern novelist, the
sacrifice wouldn't have seemed so unnatural. And then Beauty's eyes fell
upon a very fat informing-looking volume on the poet's desk.

'Wouldn't this do?' she said.

'Why, of course!' he exclaimed; 'the very thing. A new history of
socialism just sent me for review. Hang the review; we want our dinner,
don't we, little one? And then I've read the preface, and looked through
the index--quite enough to make a column of, with a plentiful supply of
general principles thrown in! Why, of course, there's our dinner for
certain, dull and indigestible as it looks. It's worth fifty minor poets
at old Moser's. Come along....'