"Horrid shade!" remarked a poetic imp.
"How?" said others. "Tell us how."
"Only by throwing a darkness, as if from the branch of a sconce, over
the forehead of a fair girl.--They are not married yet, and I do not
think they will be. But I loved the youth who loved her. How he
started! It was a revelation to him."
"But did it not deceive him?"
"Quite the contrary."
"But it was only a shadow from the outside, not a shadow coming through
from the soul of the girl."
"Yes. You may say so. But it was all that was wanted to make the
meaning of her forehead manifest--yes, of her whole face, which had now
and then, in the pauses of his passion, perplexed the youth. All of it,
curled nostrils, pouting lips, projecting chin, instantly fell into
harmony with that darkness between her eyebrows. The youth understood
it in a moment, and went home miserable. And they're not married
_yet_."
"I caught a toper alone, over his magnum of port," said a very dark
Shadow; "and didn't I give it him! I made _delirium tremens_ first; and
then I settled into a funeral, passing slowly along the length of the
opposite wall. I gave him plenty of plumes and mourning coaches. And
then I gave him a funeral service, but I could not manage to make the
surplice white, which was all the better for such a sinner. The wretch
stared till his face passed from purple to grey, and actually left his
fifth glass only, unfinished, and took refuge with his wife and
children in the drawing-room, much to their surprise.
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