Old Valentines / A Love Story

xt morning, he was conscious that in a momen

book could no

ient ballad, at the top of his

a was a

h as an

us the herd

his pa

s and ek

d-men bo

would twist

to sing f

"Can you hear in the be

illida," said Phyllis, set

English for Phyll

said P

lida was

palus t

was her

t her no

would she f

en garl

ps and of

for Cori

prevayle

ur all w

arthest from

he loved

hn, working his hairbrushes alterna

ir," replied Phyllis "I

then, that I may seek

the air, but he improvised

lus!' thus

est und

of thine u

was firs

way! that na

illida,

say that I

ty al to

her hand through the half-open doorw

hn. "Besides, I, Corin, have

graunt thi

stoppe th

d at his collar. When the button

o not stoppe thine eares.' I would rathe

graunt thi

stoppe th

y feel with

s of my d

upon a mour

coming into the sitting-room. "Pangs of hunger. Good-morning, Genev

said John. He was pu

ags the world well with you? M-m

yllis, pouring tea. "I w

es were m

him, then?" he asked, acc

ned him with a

ll not speak to you a

ctly fresh egg as far as she could see it; if you had tossed one of her muffins into the air it

an uneasy sense of having neglected her. Well-her y

anuscript into his

and go with you to the publishers," said Phyllis. "It doesn't

refle

t Ruth's this morning,

't believe one of those blessed babies will rem

ldmay's, for luncheon, at one; and we will 'bus over

s kiss

laimed. "How shall I find Mildmay's? Oh! Jo

?" he asked, se

nds on the lap

ny, little regre

stairs, however, sh

forgot. I hav

s it?"

, leaning over the banister;

doing. She could picture his lonely evenings. Alas, she knew his pride; and her own; John's, too. She often thought of her letter to him, with its hint of reconciliation; she wondered if she should have said more.

ance to Mildmay's. The moment s

nt in she

. I want to sit at

had chocolate because she liked chocolate; bu

he publishers; the little book woul

he motor-bus

should take the street to the right to Sai

y trams threatened the lives of ragged, venturesome children. Here was the very place! How slowly they had walked there, wh

yllis affectionately. The men went to the warden's office; Mrs. Thorpe took Phyllis to her

-and no pain. Your wounded heart impelled you to a mad act, dear girl; but your pride has kept you in the wrong. John Landless is a dear fellow-and Donald thinks he is a true poet. I have laughed at him until he is shy about mentioning his 'profession' to me. It is possible for

. Thorpe's lap and had a goo

sked Mrs. Th

d Phyllis. "I couldn't pro

the babies. There are some new ones since you

ntil her cheeks were rosy and her golden hair disheveled. Between

ld will be so happy to hear of that. It is remarkable t

ed Phyllis demurely. "But then

e sat at his desk and John sat on it, and sw

aid Dr. Thorpe warmly. "You will let me know the fi

Thorpe will receive a copy, affectionately inscribed by the a

orpe g

ll say,-'What! You haven't a copy of John Landless's book! The sensation of the hour! The b

at each other in the abashed way of m

es would be hot for an hour wit

said John. "If you were a publisher

little or no troubl

failed, and then Phyllis pulled the strings. I

her. How buoyant and beautiful she i

ion of valentines. They were her mother's, and she wanted

Dr. Thorpe. "Of course,

n. He is-disgustingly rich, you know." John hesitated. He looked at the floor, and traced the pattern of the carpet with his stick. "He cal

e's eyes

ritual state, later," he said.

it was understood that John and Phyllis

sense of relative values nor

od with her arm

me? You remember her poor hands, all twisted with rheumatism and yet what beautiful needlework she does. She s

en looking through

e, Donald," she sa

glanced back as

s virile face marred by excesses; the frail little woman with him looked up at him with

on Art. Phyllis drank it in. Sh

; for bohemia is simply youth and poverty and high aspirations, combined, and can't be found by search. If these literary chaps are exceptionally fortunate, they are invited to great houses, where they dine with stupid, overfed people who pretend they have read their books, though they haven't, unless they are unfit to read. And so they go on wearily turning that treadmill-and wonder why their work has lost freshness, and convinc

ookshop, and through the

I should like to live in a village, like Rosemary, Sussex, where I lived as a boy; on the outskirts of a little village, nea