"And ever listens in the ceaseless din,
Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come,
Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own,
And render sonant what in her was dumb,
The splendour, and the madness, and the sin,
Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone."_

He paused. The boat glided on. For a long time neither spoke a word.

After a while Jack broke the silence: "And are you dreaming of becoming
the lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings,
its 'dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone'?"

"No," replied Ernest, simply, "not yet. It is strange to what
impressions the brain will respond. In Clarke's house, in the midst of
inspiring things, inspiration failed me. But while I was with that girl
an idea came to me--an idea, big, real."

"Will it deal with her?"

Ernest smiled: "Oh, no. She personally has nothing to do with it. At
least not directly. It was the commotion of blood and--brain. The
air--the change. I don't know what."

"What will it be?" asked Jack, with interest all alert.

"A play, a wonderful play. And its heroine will be a princess, a little
princess, with a yellow veil."

"What of the plot?"