"My dear Smith," he
began, "you repeated last night two lines of poetry which moved me
strangely. The recollection of them has haunted me all day; say them
again, I beg of you." The immensely gratified Smith at once began:
"I and my doggie are now left alone,
Johnstone, to-morrow, will give him a bone."
"Exquisite!" murmured Tree. "Beautiful lines, and distinctly modern,
yet without the faintest trace of decadence. It is the note of implied
tragedy in them that appeals to me, for were Johnstone unfortunately
to die in the night there would, of course, be no bone for the
faithful four-footed friend. Repeat them again, please." After a
second repetition Tree went on: "You have _l'art de dire_ to an
amazing extent, Smith, and you have the priceless gift of _les
larmes dans la voix_. I know that no pecuniary inducements I might
offer would make any appeal to you; still, could I but get you to
repeat those beautiful lines on the stage of my theatre, all London
would flock to hear you. I should wish now for them to float vaguely
to my ears, as the sound of village chimes borne on the breeze; out of
the vague; out of the unknown. Ha! I have it! Would you mind, Smith,
lying under the table here, and exercising your gift as a reciter from
there.
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