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Page 18
Six small squat houses,
each with its three feet
Of garden walk and cheesecake centre bed
Fragrant with stocks and wallflowers and sweet pinks,
Each with its bright green palings, bright green door,
And bright green trellis - this was Berkeley Place.
And at the last green gate the women stopped,
But the dame of Valentines went on again,
Rustling all over with her goodbye nods;
And the other lightly ran into the house.
So Gervase sauntered past. A small brass plate,
"Madame Guarini" on the door, a bill
Of lodgings in one parlour window - so
Entrance seemed easy. Could it be ill-viewed
If he should ask what lodgings there might be?
Madame Guarini might perchance reveal,
Unconsciously, the answer which he sought
To a far other question.
At a word
The little flurried maid unclosed the door
Of a small grey-green room. "In here, sir, please."
No one was there, and no one came. He learned
The patterns on the drugget and the walls,
The different tints of fading on the chairs,
The names of the few books, the oftenest note
In the twitter of the two brown bright-eyed birds,
The number of the blossoms on the plants
In the square narrow window; unawares
He learned them, then there was no more to learn,
And he perceived he was forgotten there,
And tried the broken bell a dozen times,
And then for patience sake took up a book,
A little foolish novel.
Thus it chanced
That she was in the room before he knew.
She, Lota! "Gervase! Gervase here!" she gasped
And seemed struck helpless. Then, her face aglow
With a delirious triumph, her eyes bright
With sudden tears, she sprang to give her hand.
"To think I did not feel that you were here!"
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