"You would find her engaged with them, and domesticities go ill
with poetry."
"Plagued ill with the poetry Fellowes writes," said Branksome; "is that
not true, Mistress Dearmer?"
"I am no judge, since Mr. Fellowes has never made verses for me,"
answered the lady.
"So facile a poet may remedy that on the instant," said Branksome.
"Come, Master Rhymster, there's a kiss from the reddest lips I know
waiting as payment for a stanza."
"They are kisses which are not at your disposal," answered the lady, but
she looked at Fellowes.
"Gad! I believe you may have the kiss without the trouble of earning it,
Fellowes," laughed Branksome. "I can go bail for the goods."
Mistress Dearmer pouted, but the laugh was against her until Fellowes
came to the rescue.
"You shall have a sonnet," he said. "You may pay if you think it
worthy."
Another woman caught Sir Philip's hand and whispered, "The poetry could
hardly be so bad as the kisses are cheap, could it?"
Lord Rosmore and his host had walked to the end of the terrace talking
confidentially.
"I should have said more, but you came to interrupt us," Sir John
replied in answer to a question from his companion.
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