In the Study
He enters, and mute on the edge of a chairSits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there,A type of decayed gentility;And by some small signs he well can guessThat she comes to him almost breakfastless.
“I have called—I hope I do not err—I am looking for a purchaserOf some score volumes of the worksOf eminent divines I own,—Left by my father—though it irksMy patience to offer them.” And she smilesAs if necessity were unknown;“But the truth of it is that oftenwhilesI have wished, as I am fond of art,To make my rooms a little smart.”And lightly still she laughs to him,As if to sell were a mere gay whim,And that, to be frank, Life were indeedTo her not vinegar and gall,But fresh and honey-like; and NeedNo household skeleton at all.
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