“Certainly not! Most certainly not!” said Clio at once. “You must remember, Erato, that this is not the Greek civilisation. The English have got beyond that: they have advanced; they sweep through the deep while the stormy winds do blow, and hearts of oak are their men, and they’d take a cup o’ kindness yet on the place where the old hoss died. I make these last remarks on the authority of their own favourite songs, of which I have made a special study for my book on National Misfortunes. I assure you, Erato, that any University paper which printed your story would be ruined.” “Ah, well!” answered Erato. “I have heard it said that Love’s a lost art nowadays.” She paused a second, and then added: “Perhaps--perhaps they are happier without it.” “I don’t think so,” said Terpsichore. “Everything depends on the way you take it. Some take their love laughing, and some take it crying. I always take it laughing myself. Either way, you’re happier for it.” “Really, Terpsichore,” murmured Clio reprovingly. Terpsichore did not heed her. “Where they are so wrong nowadays is in taking their love commercially; in other words, they do not _love_; they simply acquire all rights in a cheap housekeeper or an expensive table ornament. They are so much too judicious. Yet sometimes--well, there was a man--shall I go on?” “Yes, do,” said Erato. And this is the way that Terpsichore went on:-- * * * * * There was a man once--not very long ago--who was poor, but artistic; and during his life he had rather more than his share of coincidences. It happened one autumn that he was amusing himself by wandering about a country that was good enough for an artist, but failed to attract many tourists because it did not boast enough places where you had to pay for admission. He had stayed a few days in a little village, where there was one street that went tumbling downhill, sometimes with cottages on each side, sometimes through clumps of stunted trees, sometimes with the open heath all round it. It happened one night that he was wandering down this street, and had reached one of those places where the street turned into a country lane for a time, or rather for a space. He was smoking, and humming to himself a song that he had heard Viola sing a few months before. Viola had taken very fair hold of the town that season. It was not only that she sang divinely; she was beautiful, and a little mysterious. The numerous stories told about her were rendered probable by her beauty, which was rather wicked; but no one could be certain about them because she was so mysterious. Besides, many of the stories were self-contradictory.