Corby’s nineteenth year. To her I dedicate this ode. So, pray, my earnest muse to hear.”
Mr. Rollo threw Sophie a glance over the top of his paper to gauge her reaction to his introduction, managing to include Sir John in its scope. If Sophie’s polite smile was not enough to encourage him onward, Sir John’s hearty, “Hear, hear,” and vigorous nod of the head clearly were. Mr. Rollo puffed out his chest and continued.
“As gentle Hestia tends the hearth
For mighty Zeus’s Olympian throne,
So Miss Corby takes her place beside
The fireplace of her father’s home.
“As Artemis was well endowed
With Zeus’s pack of lop-eared hounds
So chance has blessed Miss Corby with
A glorious hunt of world renown.”
Mr. Rollo darted a glance at Sir John to measure his approval, and behind Sophie’s chair, Tony emitted a discreet cough which threatened to disturb her gravity. But Mr. Rollo returned to his reading, and she lost all sense of amusement as she listened to the remaining verses.
“Fair as Io, warm as Gaea,
Blessed by Eos’ dewy hand,
All applaud your wondrous beauty
Among the fairest in the land.
“Thus, I beseech the playful Cupid,
Harken to my earnest plea
Release thy shaft on this fair maiden
Win her favour now for me.”
The ode was ended. But to Sophie’s intense mortification, as Mr. Rollo reached the end, he looked at her once again with more than a hint of a suggestion. His last words could only have one meaning, and this had not escaped the rest of the company. There was much applause following the reading of the poem and much laughter of an approving sort.
Sir John, leaping to his feet at the end, hastened to declare Mr. Rollo’s poem the best birthday ode he had ever heard, as good as the Poet Laureate’s ode to the Queen the previous year, he was certain. He clapped the young man on the back and ushered him over to receive Sophie’s thanks.
The birthday girl found herself unable to express her gratitude to Mr. Rollo with any degree of sincerity. She did not wish to encourage him in his obvious pursuit of her hand, nor did she want her father to feel encouraged in his misguided matchmaking. She could do no more than extend her hand as impersonally as possible under the circumstances and thank him for the kindness of his intentions.
Sir John, however, was not wholly satisfied with this response. Hoping for something warmer, he prompted her by saying, “I told Rollo here about your own poetry, Sophie. And I knew it would please you to have him write a sonnet to your eyes or some such thing. It has, hasn’t it now?” His tone did not invite an answer so much as an affirmation.
But Sophie was spared the difficulty of answering by Tony, who stepped quickly from behind her to shake Mr. Rollo’s hand vigorously.
“My dear Rollo, an excellent ode! It puts the rest of us in the shade. I confess I had written my own little something on the occasion, but it pales in the shadow of your composition. I shall not have the courage to read it now. I will not subject myself to ridicule. But may I commend yours,” he added obliquely.
Mr. Rollo was beaming from the collective praises of the two gentlemen and did not solicit any more from Miss Corby. Like many sportsmen, he valued the opinion of his peers far more than those of the ladies, believing members of the fair sex to have few firm ideas of their own, anyway. But his well-cultivated good manners prompted him to respond in like fashion, and he begged to hear Tony’s poem.
“Yes, you must let us hear it, dear fellow,” he persisted when Tony refused. “You must not let my own performance discourage you. You may not realize it, but I am not in the habit of writing poetry and I, at least, shall appreciate your efforts. Devilish tricky!”
Tony’s lips twitched, but he did not let on that Mr. Rollo’s appreciation would not be the object of his recitation. Instead he drew out of his coat pocket a small
Mr. Rollo threw Sophie a glance over the top of his paper to gauge her reaction to his introduction, managing to include Sir John in its scope. If Sophie’s polite smile was not enough to encourage him onward, Sir John’s hearty, “Hear, hear,” and vigorous nod of the head clearly were. Mr. Rollo puffed out his chest and continued.
“As gentle Hestia tends the hearth
For mighty Zeus’s Olympian throne,
So Miss Corby takes her place beside
The fireplace of her father’s home.
“As Artemis was well endowed
With Zeus’s pack of lop-eared hounds
So chance has blessed Miss Corby with
A glorious hunt of world renown.”
Mr. Rollo darted a glance at Sir John to measure his approval, and behind Sophie’s chair, Tony emitted a discreet cough which threatened to disturb her gravity. But Mr. Rollo returned to his reading, and she lost all sense of amusement as she listened to the remaining verses.
“Fair as Io, warm as Gaea,
Blessed by Eos’ dewy hand,
All applaud your wondrous beauty
Among the fairest in the land.
“Thus, I beseech the playful Cupid,
Harken to my earnest plea
Release thy shaft on this fair maiden
Win her favour now for me.”
The ode was ended. But to Sophie’s intense mortification, as Mr. Rollo reached the end, he looked at her once again with more than a hint of a suggestion. His last words could only have one meaning, and this had not escaped the rest of the company. There was much applause following the reading of the poem and much laughter of an approving sort.
Sir John, leaping to his feet at the end, hastened to declare Mr. Rollo’s poem the best birthday ode he had ever heard, as good as the Poet Laureate’s ode to the Queen the previous year, he was certain. He clapped the young man on the back and ushered him over to receive Sophie’s thanks.
The birthday girl found herself unable to express her gratitude to Mr. Rollo with any degree of sincerity. She did not wish to encourage him in his obvious pursuit of her hand, nor did she want her father to feel encouraged in his misguided matchmaking. She could do no more than extend her hand as impersonally as possible under the circumstances and thank him for the kindness of his intentions.
Sir John, however, was not wholly satisfied with this response. Hoping for something warmer, he prompted her by saying, “I told Rollo here about your own poetry, Sophie. And I knew it would please you to have him write a sonnet to your eyes or some such thing. It has, hasn’t it now?” His tone did not invite an answer so much as an affirmation.
But Sophie was spared the difficulty of answering by Tony, who stepped quickly from behind her to shake Mr. Rollo’s hand vigorously.
“My dear Rollo, an excellent ode! It puts the rest of us in the shade. I confess I had written my own little something on the occasion, but it pales in the shadow of your composition. I shall not have the courage to read it now. I will not subject myself to ridicule. But may I commend yours,” he added obliquely.
Mr. Rollo was beaming from the collective praises of the two gentlemen and did not solicit any more from Miss Corby. Like many sportsmen, he valued the opinion of his peers far more than those of the ladies, believing members of the fair sex to have few firm ideas of their own, anyway. But his well-cultivated good manners prompted him to respond in like fashion, and he begged to hear Tony’s poem.
“Yes, you must let us hear it, dear fellow,” he persisted when Tony refused. “You must not let my own performance discourage you. You may not realize it, but I am not in the habit of writing poetry and I, at least, shall appreciate your efforts. Devilish tricky!”
Tony’s lips twitched, but he did not let on that Mr. Rollo’s appreciation would not be the object of his recitation. Instead he drew out of his coat pocket a small
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