IS! 



i:r A\n:i;iCAN iiee-kkei'i.i: 



203 



iVlAKJNG A S3NNE7. 



I've ainpi^ied me or.t a form : 1 would indite 



A vninet to be r'/!;i;l:ir us a buw 



Or iii-'jmise in tlu^ hi-avi'iis, tliat we do know 

 Sho»rs always stjvc^ri coiorti to the sight; 

 And twice Sfvi i; Ium's aro in a sonnet, quite. 



The octave noAV is Diakinj,' a yood .show. 

 And will bo ond;'d soon, to n\y delight. 



I've hr.ii'd of f.onn"t writers that, in woe, 

 Sat up all hours so as to get It right. 



The sestet's not so hard as the octave, 

 But hard enoufrh for liie. Why should I sigh? 



'Tis trr.e the task's not comjcal, nor grave, 

 Nor liupeU'Ss is it, or I should not try 



'Vo sin;,' a litilo running music stave. 

 Which ought the Petrarch cult to satisfy. 

 —Edward S. Creamer in New York Sun. 



HIS IDEAL WOMAN. 



The first thing I did on getting back 

 from India was to spend a week with 

 my people in the cotiutry. A good deal 

 can happen in five years, and we natural- 

 ly had plenty to talk about. But I tore 

 myself away at last with a promise to 

 return for August and settled myself in 

 town in my old lodgings off St. James 

 street 



Apart from the various business mat- 

 ters recjuiring my attention — my invest- 

 ments had i:f^t impi-ovetl during my ab- 

 sence, and it was necessary to cast my 

 eye about for other securities — London, 

 at the moment, appealed to me irresisti- 

 bly. 



There, within the four mile radius, 

 was ma>'sed the whole of what I had 

 missed diu-ing my five years in a remote 

 station in Burma — the life, the mo- 

 tion, the perpetual sense of something 

 going on, of being in close proximity, 

 if not in absolute contact with, the 

 source of cun\-nt modc^ of thought, of 

 hearing the ceaseles.'-: hum of the wheals 

 of civliz:itiou, the throb of actuality, of 

 which not cn-eu the echoes had penetrat- 

 ed to the squat white bungalow on the 

 banks of the Irawadi, where the mon- 

 otony had not b«*n vai'ied by even so 

 much as a moment's fighting, and one 

 made up for saving one's intellectual by 

 overfeeding one s physiciil instincts. 



Once in town, I fomid myself plunged 

 into a vcitcs of amu.sement. There 

 were eld tnends to be "looked up." 

 When "Iciktd up, " they in.sisted on 

 dinner, to Le followed by a theater or 

 music hall. Some of the men I had 



"done the town" with five years before 

 had got married. I had to make the ac- 

 quaintance of their wives. Others who 

 had been married had been divorced. I 

 had to forget that they had ever been 

 married. 



One way and another I was bo busy 

 that it was not till the end of a mouth 

 that I remembered that 1 had not seen 

 Wetherby. He had always been "one of 

 us" in the old days at Oxford and 

 elsewhere, prepared , for anything and 

 everything, and 1 could not make out 

 hovv' it was that I had nut already come 

 acro.s:s him. 



"Oh, Wetherby, " said Ben.son, the 

 stockbroker, when I asked him what 

 had happeiitxl to our old friend, "we 

 never see Wetherby now. He is supposed 

 to be in love. For myself, I believe he 

 \vas just &oing to mun-y a girl, and she 

 died, with the result that he has been 

 brooding over her death ever since. 



Anyway, no one ever seems to see 

 him anywhere, though he's still got 

 the same old rooms in the temple. Go 

 and look him up by all means, but I 

 don't supi)oge you'll be able to see him, 

 or, if you do, to get anything out of 

 him. As 1 say, he never seems to go 

 out anywhere, though, as you kno%v he 

 used to be such a great ladies' man. " 



"With strong views as to the ideal 

 woman," Iijut in, remembering various 

 conver.sutioiLS we had had on tlie subject. 



"Yes, " assented Benson, "he was al- 

 ways grt^at on the woman question, 

 talking about 'the perfect type, ' and all 

 that sort of bosh. He always was a bit 

 of a dreamer. ' ' 



"Perhaps," 1 said maliciously, "that 

 may ac-count for his never being seen 

 now. He may have found this type and 

 be keeping her to himself. ' ' 



"Perhaps," said Benson. "Howevej:, 

 you go and see him. You and he used 

 to be such terrific pals you may be able 

 t-o get nvore out of him thim we other 

 fellows have been able to do. " 



"Well, I'll go anyway." I said. 



1 went dov,-Ti to the temple that very 

 night. My loud knock on the outer dcxjr 

 of his cliambers brought Wetlierby him- 

 self to ojx^n it. It struck me that he 

 looked half confu.sed, half annoyed, as 

 if I hiwl sur|3rised him at a moment 

 when he vvas occupied with other niat- 

 tei-s and resented intrusion. I wondered 

 whether, after all, the "perfect tviio" 



