corydalis. There was soft new moss underfoot, and one walked as if
in a temple.

Thyrsis pointed out a seat beside a deep bubbling pool. "Here's
where I sit and write," he said.

"And how comes the book?" asked Corydon.

"Oh, I'm hammering at it--that's the best I can say."

"What is it?"

"Why--it's a story. I suppose it'll be called a romance, though I
don't like the word."

Corydon pondered for a moment. "I wouldn't expect you to be writing
anything romantic," she said.

Thyrsis, occupied with his own thoughts, observed, "I might call it
a revolutionary romance."

"What is it about?"

He hesitated. "It happens in the middle ages," he said. "There's a
minstrel and a princess."

"That sounds interesting," said Corydon.

Now in the period of pregnancy the artist's mood is one of
secretiveness. But afterwards there comes a time for promulgation