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“That would be a good guess in Wall Street or in a campaign for the presidency of a woman’s club,” said Ravenel, quietly. “Now, there is a poem–if you will allow me to call it that–of my own in this number of the magazine.”

“Read it to me,” said Sammy, watching a cloud of pipe-smoke he had just blown out the window.

Ravenel was no greater than Achilles. No one is. There is bound to be a spot. The Somebody-or-Other must take hold of us somewhere when she dips us in the Something-or-Other that makes us invulnerable. He read aloud this verse in the magazine: THE FOUR ROSES

“One rose I twined within your hair–
(White rose, that spake of worth);
And one you placed upon your breast–
(Red rose, love’s seal of birth).
You plucked another from its stem–
(Tea rose, that means for aye);
And one you gave–that bore for me
The thorns of memory.”

“That’s a crackerjack,” said Sammy, admiringly.

“There are five more verses,” said Ravenel, patiently sardonic. “One naturally pauses at the end of each. Of course–“

“Oh, let’s have the rest, old man,” shouted Sammy, contritely, “I didn’t mean to cut you off. I’m not much of a poetry expert, you know. I never saw a poem that didn’t look like it ought to have terminal facilities at the end of every verse. Reel off the rest of it.”

Ravenel sighed, and laid the magazine down. “All right,” said Sammy, cheerfully, “we’ll have it next time. I’ll be off now. Got a date at five o’clock.”

He took a last look at the shaded green garden and left, whistling in an off key an untuneful air from a roofless farce comedy.

The next afternoon Ravenel, while polishing a ragged line of a new sonnet, reclined by the window overlooking the besieged garden of the unmercenary baron. Suddenly he sat up, spilling two rhymes and a syllable or two.

Through the trees one window of the old mansion could be seen clearly. In its window, draped in flowing white, leaned the angel of all his dreams of romance and poesy. Young, fresh as a drop of dew, graceful as a spray of clematis, conferring upon the garden hemmed in by the roaring traffic the air of a princess’s bower, beautiful as any flower sung by poet–thus Ravenel saw her for the first time. She lingered for a while, and then disappeared within, leaving a few notes of a birdlike ripple of song to reach his entranced ears through the rattle of cabs and the snarling of the electric cars.

Thus, as if to challenge the poet’s flaunt at romance and to punish him for his recreancy to the undying spirit of youth and beauty, this vision had dawned upon him with a thrilling and accusive power. And so metabolic was the power that in an instant the atoms of Ravenel’s entire world were redistributed. The laden drays that passed the house in which she lived rumbled a deep double-bass to the tune of love. The newsboys’ shouts were the notes of singing birds; that garden was the pleasance of the Capulets; the janitor was an ogre; himself a knight, ready with sword, lance or lute.

Thus does romance show herself amid forests of brick and stone when she gets lost in the city, and there has to be sent out a general alarm to find her again.

At four in the afternoon Ravenel looked out across the garden. In the window of his hopes were set four small vases, each containing a great, full-blown rose–red and white. And, as he gazed, she leaned above them, shaming them with her loveliness and seeming to direct her eyes pensively toward his own window. And then, as though she had caught his respectful but ardent regard, she melted away, leaving the fragrant emblems on the window-sill.

Yes, emblems!–he would be unworthy if he had not understood. She had read his poem, “The Four Roses”; it had reached her heart; and this was its romantic answer. Of course she must know that Ravenel, the poet, lived there across her garden. His picture, too, she must have seen in the magazines. The delicate, tender, modest, flattering message could not be ignored.