For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.'"
Then he grew serious, tossed the cloak and hat upon a bench that ran
round the room, and refilled and lighted his pipe. Oscar, soberly
unpacking, saw Armitage pace the hall floor for an hour, deep in thought.
"Oscar," he called abruptly, "how far is it down to Storm Springs?"
"A forced march, and you are there in an hour and a half, sir."
CHAPTER XIII
THE LADY OF THE PERGOLA
April, April,
Laugh, thy girlish laughter;
Then, the moment after,
Weep thy girlish, tears!
April, that mine ears
Like a lover greetest,
If I tell thee, sweetest,
All my hopes and fears,
April, April,
Laugh thy golden laughter,
But, the moment after,
Weep thy golden tears!
--William Watson.
A few photographs of foreign scenes tacked on the walls; a Roman blanket
hung as a tapestry over the mantel; a portfolio and traveler's writing
materials distributed about a table produced for the purpose, and
additions to the meager book-shelf--a line of Baedekers, a pocket atlas,
a comprehensive American railway guide, several volumes of German and
French poetry--and the place was not so bad.
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