PROLOGUE

ASSUME that we are friends. Assume

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 toward the fire,
Finished the feast not full but fitting,
Watch the light-leaping flames aspire.

Silent at first, in time we glow;
Discuss "eclectics," high and low;
Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing
The fancies of DETROY, MOREAU;

Anon we glide to "crocks" and plates,

Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, And half-pathetic over "states"

Then I produce my Prize, in truth ;-
Six groups in SÈVRES, fresh as Youth,

And rare as Love.
(Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth!)

You pause, you wonder,

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 À-LA-MODE

Tout vient à point à qui sait 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.

THE BARON.

What shall it be,—

A tale of woe, or perfidy?

THE COUNTESS.

Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes:
But perfidy, of course, one knows.

666

THE BARON (reads).

Ah, Phillis! cruel Phillis!

(I heard a Shepherd say,)

You hold me with your Eyes, and yet