A common taste for old costume, Old pictures,-books. Then dream us sitting, Us two,-in some soft-lighted room. Outside, the wind-the "ways are mire." We, with our faces towards the fire, Finished the feast not full but fitting, Watch the light-leaping flames aspire. A Silent at first, in time we glow; Discuss "eclectics," high and low; Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing The fancies of DETROY, MOREAU; "Reveils" and "Couchers," "Balls" and " Fêtes ;" Anon we glide to "crocks" and plates, Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, And half-pathetic over 66 states." Then I produce my Prize, in truth ; Six groups in SÈVRES, fresh as Youth, And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder, (Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth!) And so we fall to why and how The fragile figures smile and bow; Divine, at length, the fable under Thus grew the "Scenes" that follow now. THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. "Tout vient à point à qui peut attendre." SCENE. A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted with Cupids shooting at Butterflies. THE COUNTESS. THE BARON (her cousin and suitor). THE COUNTESS (looking up from her work). Baron, you doze. THE BARON (closing his book). I, Madame ? No. I wait your order-Stay or Go. THE COUNTESS. Which means, I think, that Go or Stay Affects you nothing, either way. THE BARON. Excuse me,-By your favour graced My inclinations are effaced. THE COUNTESS. Or much the same. How keen you grow! You must be reading MARIVAUX. THE BARON. Nay, 'twas a song of SAINTE-Aulaire. THE COUNTESS. Then read me one. We've time to spare: If I can catch the clock-face there, 'Tis barely eight. |