“Venus, wounded in the side ...” is the opening line of an old poem of Senhouse's, one of those “Greek Idylls” with which he made his bow to the world--old placid stories illuminated by modern romantic fancy; nursery-rhyme versions, we may call them, of the myths. “Venus, wounded in the side,” recounts how the Dame, struck by a shaft of her son's, ran moaning from one ally to another seeking Pity, the only balm that could assuage her wound. To the new lover, to the old, to the fresh-wedded, to the long-mated: from one to the other she ran--hand clapt to throbbing heart. None could help her. “Pity! What's that?” cried the first. “I triumph: rejoice with me. Is she not like the sun in a valley?” The second cursed her for a procuress. The bride stirred in her sleep, and whispered, “Kiss me again, Beloved.” As for the fourth, he said, “All my Pity was for myself. It is gone; now I am frost-bound.” Venus wept: Adonis healed the wound. Sanchia, reading long afterwards, saw in it a parallel to her case, when she, stricken deep, ran about London ways for a soothing lotion. She saw herself trapped; felt the steel bite to the bone. Tears might have helped her, but she had none: pray she could not, nor crave mercy. It was not Ingram who held her caged, but Destiny; and there's no war with him. She thought of Vicky, of Melusine. Their kisses would have been sweet, but she knew what they would say. Melusine's sideways head, her sighed, “Dearest, how sad! But life is so serious, isn't it?” She saw the gleam in Vicky's eyes, and heard her “Dear old Sancie, how splendid! Now you'll be all right.” Then she would clasp her round the neck and whisper in her ear, “Do make me an aunt--I shall adore your baby. Quick, darling!” She turned her back on Kensington and Camberley, and went into the City, to The Poultry, with her griefs. Poor Mr. Percival's rosy gills and white whiskers, his invariable, “Well, Sancie--well, my dear, well, well--” called her home. She ran forward, clung to him, and lay a while in his arms, short-breathing, breathless for the advent of peace. To his, “What is it, my love? Tell your old father all about it,” she could only murmur, “Oh, dearest, what shall I do?” He urged her again to tell him what the matter was--“What has hurt you? Who has dared to hurt my darling? Show me that scoundrel--” but she was luxuriating in new comfort and would say nothing. Into her false peace she snuggled and lay still; and the honest man, loving her to be there, let her be.