As I came down to South Street by the soft sea-water, I saw long ships, their mast-heads ever bowing: Sweet slender maids in clinging gowns of golden, Curtseying stately in a fashion olden, Bowing sweetly--each a king's fair daughter-- To me, their millionth, millionth lover, I, the seventh son of the old sea-rover, As I came down to South Street by the myriad moving water. THE INABILITY TO INTERFERE BY MARY HEATON VORSE To myself I could be articulate enough about it. Indeed, I held long conversations about it, mainly in the darkness of the night, with my bolder self, who advised me so cleverly and who told me all the tactful things and all the forceful things that I ought on occasion to say. Then there came, with that other self, a conversation which settled things. It went something in this way: "You have let things go far enough." "Yes," I admitted guiltily, "I know it." "It's time you took a stand." "I know it," I again admitted forlornly. "Why don't you do it then?" sternly asked the bolder self. He could afford to be bold, it wasn't he who had the talking to do. "Why don't you explain to Felicia the way you feel about it and how it looks and all about it----" This time it was myself who grew bold. I said: "You great ass! Do you think I'm going to let you make me make Felicia cry?" "Better have her cry," grumbled the other self, "than let her expose herself unthinking to--well, all sorts of things." (One would have thought to hear him that Monty Saunders was the measles!) We were silent a while, and in my imagination I saw again the distressing spectacle of Felicia weeping. I suppose there is no man who has been married a year who has not made his Felicia cry. You cannot explain how the terrible thing came about. It may be you had a moment of surface impatience. Generally it's something less definite than that--a bit of chaff at an untimely moment, an indiscreet question put forth in a spirit of the friendliest curiosity. "Why," for instance you may have said, "isn't dinner ready?" You didn't mind its not being ready in the least, but, not being used to having dinners of your own, you were amused and interested to know the cause of its lateness. And there before your eyes the unbelievable has happened, Felicia is in tears, and it is your fault. You are like a landsman who has pulled an innocent-looking plug out of the bottom of a boat and sees it fill and founder before his eyes; you feel like a man who lights a match and lo! his house is in flames; with such horror and bewilderment does the sight of a weeping Felicia fill you. Guilt and bewilderment struggle with one another, as her mouth quivers pitifully and her eyes fill with slow tears. She turns away to battle with them, and, instead of holding your tongue, you choose from among all the silly, inadequate things there are in the world to say, "What's the matter, dear?"