"Not necessarily. My intentions are honourable but not matrimonial, and a ring is not the symbol of love but of marriage." "Cynic..." "No ... poet. Love to the poet is part of his material. It is the most important of his implements of craft. His motive force. I love, but I ask nothing in return ... beyond being permitted to love from afar. But not too far. A poet must be in the general neighbourhood of his inspiration." "Stop ... my tea is coming up..." "Worldling! No doubt you are in love with her yourself." The voice of the poet held the tone of one being roused from a beauty-sleep. "I hope that you are ... and that she returns your passion. So much the better. A hopeless love is always productive of the purest verse. The Italian poets understood this. It is all that I needed." "If I listen to you any longer you will have to chain me to the mainmast with the Finn. Why did you pick out Hermione?" The eyes of the poet shot him a yellow gleam. "What makes you think that it is Hermione?" "You were yapping her name as I came alongside. Never mind; I will not betray you. But I wish that you would let me tell them that it is hopeless passion and not feeble-mindedness which leads you on in the wake of the _Shark_. They would be so pleased." "Tell them, if you like. It does not matter, since we are destined never to meet. But don't tell which one I am in love with. The others might tease her. All women are cats." "A lover-like opinion...." "I am very fond of cats. They are my index ... just as yellow is my colour. I am really very much in love with Hermione." "When did you see her?" "Last winter. It was her superb walk that vanquished me. I have never seen her, bow-on. Last winter, on my way down Fifth Avenue every morning to breakfast at the club, I often overhauled her. But I never passed. She drifted along like a marsh lily gathered by the flood." "But she might enjoy meeting you." Applebo shook his head. "I am wedded to my Muse. She will not brook a rival. Should Hermione enter my life, I would never write another poem. You see, I would be merely living one. Have a macaroon. There is very little mould on this one." Wood glanced at him with suspicion, but Applebo's face would have made that of the Sphinx look open and confiding. A big, yellow tom-cat he appeared as he sat there, great shoulders hunched forward, back bent, blinking impenetrably at his guest. He finished a macaroon and licked the crumbs from his lips, and looked even cattier. It would not have surprised his guest had he begun to purr. "Where did you learn so much seamanship?" asked Wood. "Captain Bell says that the way you find your way around is uncanny." Applebo waved his hand and shrugged. "A mere instinct. One might almost say a lower attribute and shared with birds, mammals, and fishes. I am not proud of it." "Do you write poems of the sea?"