Romance in poetry is almost exclusively associated with very refined ethereal matters, stars and flowers and such like—­happily, in actual life it is often associated with much humbler objects.  Lovers, like children, can make their paradises out of the quaintest materials.  Indeed, our paradises, if we only knew, are always cheap enough; it is our hells that are so expensive.  Now these lovers—­like, if I mistake not, many other true lovers before and since—­when they were particularly happy, when some special piece of good luck had befallen them, could think of no better paradise than a little dinner together in their seventh-story heaven.  ‘Ah! wilderness were Paradise enow!’

To-night was obviously such an occasion.  But, alas! where was the money to come from?  They didn’t need much—­for it is wonderful how happy you can be on five shillings, if you only know how.  At the same time it is difficult to be happy on ninepence—­which was the entire fortune of the lovers at the moment.  Beauty laughingly suggested that her celebrated hair might prove worth the price of their dinner.  The poet thought a pawnbroker might surely be found to advance ten shillings on his poem—­the original Ms. too,—­else had they nothing to pawn, save a few gold and silver dreams which they couldn’t spare.  What was to be done?  Sell some books, of course!  It made them shudder to think how many poets they had eaten in this fashion.  It was sheer cannibalism—­but what was to be done?  Their slender stock of books had been reduced entirely to poetry.  If there had only been a philosopher or a modern novelist, the sacrifice wouldn’t have seemed so unnatural.  And then Beauty’s eyes fell upon a very fat informing-looking volume on the poet’s desk.

‘Wouldn’t this do?’ she said.

‘Why, of course!’ he exclaimed; ’the very thing.  A new history of socialism just sent me for review.  Hang the review; we want our dinner, don’t we, little one?  And then I’ve read the preface, and looked through the index—­quite enough to make a column of, with a plentiful supply of general principles thrown in!  Why, of course, there’s our dinner for certain, dull and indigestible as it looks.  It’s worth fifty minor poets at old Moser’s.  Come along....’

So off went the happy pair—­ah! how much happier was Beauty than ever so many fine ladies one knows who have only, so to say, to rub their wedding-rings for a banquet to rise out of the ground, with the most distinguished guests around the table, champagne of the best, and conversation of the worst.

Old Moser found histories of socialism profitable, more profitable perhaps than socialism, and he actually gave five-and-sixpence for the volume.  With the ninepence already in their pockets, you will see that they were now possessors of quite a small fortune.  Six-and-threepence!  It wouldn’t pay for one’s lunch nowadays.  Ah! but that is because the poor alone know the art of dining.