continues deluded all his days.'

'Well, there's just enough truth in what you say, to make the remark
unbearable. However, it doesn't matter to me now that I "meditate
the thankless Muse" no longer, but. . .' He paused, as if
endeavouring to think what better thing he did.

Cytherea's mind ran on to the succeeding lines of the poem, and
their startling harmony with the present situation suggested the
fancy that he was 'sporting' with her, and brought an awkward
contemplativeness to her face.

Springrove guessed her thoughts, and in answer to them simply said
'Yes.' Then they were silent again.

'If I had known an Amaryllis was coming here, I should not have made
arrangements for leaving,' he resumed.

Such levity, superimposed on the notion of 'sport', was intolerable
to Cytherea; for a woman seems never to see any but the serious side
of her attachment, though the most devoted lover has all the time a
vague and dim perception that he is losing his old dignity and
frittering away his time.

'But will you not try again to get on in your profession? Try once
more; do try once more,' she murmured. 'I am going to try again. I
have advertised for something to do.'

'Of course I will,' he said, with an eager gesture and smile. 'But
we must remember that the fame of Christopher Wren himself depended