Bones in London

She waited for him to begin, but he was strangely embarrassed even forhim.

"Miss Marguerite," he began at last a little huskily, "the jolly oldpoet is born and not – "

"Oh, have you brought them?" she asked eagerly, and held out her hand.

"Do show me, please!"

Bones shook his head.

"No, I have not brought them," he said. "In fact, I can't bring themyet."

She was disappointed, and showed it.

"You've promised me for a week I should see them."

"Awful stuff, awful stuff!" murmured Bones disparagingly. "Simplyterrible tripe!"

"Tripe?" she said, puzzled.

"I mean naughty rubbish and all that sort of thing."

"Oh, but I'm sure it's good," she said. "You wouldn't talk about yourpoems if they weren't good."

"Well," admitted Bones, "I'm not so sure, dear old arbitratorelegantus, to use a Roman expression, I'm not so sure you're not right.One of these days those poems will be given to this wicked old world, and – then you'll see."

"But what are they all about?" she asked for about the twentieth time.

"What are they about?" said Bones slowly and thoughtfully. "They'reabout one thing and another, but mostly about my – er – friends. Ofcourse a jolly old poet like me, or like any other old fellow, likeShakespeare, if you like – to go from the sublime to the ridiculous – hasfits of poetising that mean absolutely nothing. It doesn't follow thatif a poet like Browning or me writes fearfully enthusiastically and allthat sort of thing about a person… No disrespect, you understand, dear old miss."

"Quite," she said, and wondered.

"I take a subject for a verse," said Bones airily, waving his handtoward Throgmorton Street. "A 'bus, a fuss, a tram, a lamb, a hat, acat, a sunset, a little flower growing on the river's brim, and allthat sort of thing – any old subject, dear old miss, that strikes me inthe eye – you understand?"

"Of course I understand," she said readily. "A poet's field isuniversal, and I quite understand that if he writes nice things abouthis friends he doesn't mean it."

"Oh, but doesn't he?" said Bones truculently. "Oh, doesn't he, indeed?

That just shows what a fat lot you know about it, jolly old Miss

Marguerite. When I write a poem about a girl – "

"Oh, I see, they're about girls," said she a little coldly.

"About a girl," said Bones, this time so pointedly that his confusionwas transferred immediately to her.

"Anyway, they don't mean anything," she said bravely.

"My dear young miss" – Bones rose, and his voice trembled as he laid hishand on the typewriter where hers had been a second before – "my dearold miss," he said, jingling with the letters "a" and "e" as though hehad originally put out his hand to touch the keyboard, and was in noway surprised and distressed that the little hand which had coveredthem had been so hastily withdrawn, "I can only tell you – "

"There is your telephone bell," she said hurriedly. "Shall I answerit?" And before Bones could reply she had disappeared.

He went back to his flat that night with his mind made up. He wouldshow her those beautiful verses. He had come to this conclusion manytimes before, but his heart had failed him. But he was growingreckless now. She should see them – priceless verses, written in a mostexpensive book, with the monogram "W.M." stamped in gold upon thecover. And as he footed it briskly up Devonshire Street, he recited:

"O Marguerite, thou lovely flower,
I think of thee most every hour,
With eyes of grey and eyes of blue,
That change with every passing hue,
Thy lovely fingers beautifully typing,
How sweet and fragrant is thy writing!

He thought he was reciting to himself, but that was not the case.

People turned and watched him, and when he passed the green doorway of

Dr. Harkley Bawkley, the eminent brain specialist, they were visibly disappointed.

He did not unlock the rosewood door of his flat, but rang the silverbell.

He preferred this course. Ali, his Coast servant, in his new livery ofblue and silver, made the opening of the door something only lesspicturesque than the opening of Parliament. This intention may nothave been unconnected with the fact that there were two or three youngladies, and very young at that, on the landing, waiting for the door ofthe opposite flat to open.

Ali opened the door. The lower half of him was blue and silver, theupper half was Oxford shirt and braces, for he had been engaged incleaning the silver.

"What the deuce do you mean by it?" demanded Bones wrathfully."Haven't I given you a good uniform, you blithering jackass? What thedeuce do you mean by opening the door, in front of people, too, dressedlike a – a – dashed naughty boy?"

"Silverous forks require lubrication for evening repast," said Alireproachfully.

Bones stalked on to his study.

It was a lovely study, with a carpet of beautiful blue. It was a studyof which a man might be proud. The hangings were of silk, and thesuite was also of silk, and also of blue silk. He sat down at hisLouis XVI. table, took a virgin pad, and began to write. Theinspiration was upon him, and he worked at top speed.

"I saw a litle bird – a litle bird – a litle bird, floating in the sky,"he wrote. "Ever so high! Its pretty song came down, down to me, andit sounded like your voice the other afternoon at tea, at tea. And inits flite I remembered the night when you came home to me."

He paused at the last, because Marguerite Whitland had never come hometo him, certainly not at night. The proprieties had to be observed, and he changed the last few lines to: "I remember the day when you cameaway to Margate on the sea, on the sea."

He had not seen his book of poems for a week, but there was a blankpage at the end into which the last, and possibly the greatest, mightgo. He pulled the drawer open. It was empty. There was no mistakingthe fact that that had been the drawer in which the poems had reposed, because Bones had a very excellent memory.

He rang the bell and Ali came, his Oxford shirt and braces imperfectlyhidden under a jersey which had seen better days.

"Ali" – and this time Bones spoke rapidly and in Coast Arabic – "in thisdrawer was a beautiful book in which I had written many things."

Ali nodded.

"Master, that I know, for you are a great poet, and I speak yourpraises whenever I go into the café, for Hafiz did not write morebeautifully than you."

"What the dooce," spluttered Bones in English, "do you mean by tellingpeople about me – eh, you scoundrel? What the dooce do you mean by it, you naughty old ebony?"

"Master," said All "eulogistic speechification creates admiration incommon minds."