FAME in Athens and Florence took the form of in it is represented by "Romeikes." Hyacinth Rondel, the very latest new poet, sat one evening not long ago in his elegant new chambers with a cloud of those pleasant witnesses about him, as charmed by "the rustle" of their "loved Apollian leaves" as though they had been veritable laurel or veritable bank-notes. His rooms were provided with all those distinguished comforts and elegancies proper to a success that may any moment be interviewed. Needless to say, the walls had been decorated by Mr. Whistler, and there was not a piece of furniture in the room that had not belonged to this or that poet deceased. Priceless autograph portraits of all the leading actors and actresses littered the mantel-shelf with a reckless prodigality; the two or three choice etchings were, of course, no less conspicuously inscribed to their illustrious confrère by the artists — naturally, the very latest hatched in Paris. There was hardly a volume in the elegant Chippendale bookcases not similarly inscribed. Mr. Rondel would as soon have thought of buying a book as of paying for a stall. To the eye of imagination, therefore, there was not an article in the room which did not carry a little trumpet to the distinguished poet's honour and glory. Hidden from view in his buhl cabinet, but none the less vivid to his sensitive egoism, were those tenderer trophies of his power (spoils of the chase) which the adoring feminine had offered up at his shrine, all his love-letters sorted in periods, neatly ribboned and snugly ensconced in various sandalwood niches — much as urns are ranged at the Crematorium, Woking — and locks of hair of many colours. He loved most to think of those letters in which the women had gladly sought a spiritual suttee, and begged him to cement the stones of his temple of fame with the blood of their devoted hearts. To have had a share in building so distinguished a life — that was enough for them! They asked no such inconvenient reward as marriage; indeed, one or two of them had already obtained that boon from others. To serve their purpose, and then, if it must be, to be forgotten, or — wild hope — to be embalmed in a sonnet sequence — that was reward enough. Terar dum prosim.

      It was in the midst of this silent and yet so eloquent orchestra, which from morn to night was continually crying "Glory, glory, glory" in the ear of the self-enamoured poet, that Hyacinth Rondel was sitting one evening. The last post had brought him the above-mentioned bundle of the Romeike laurel, and he sat in his easiest chair by the bright fire, adjusting it upon his high brow, a decanter at his right-hand and cigarette-smoke curling up from his left. At last he had drained all the honey from the last paragraph, and, with rustling, shining head, he turned a sweeping, triumphant gaze around his room. But, to his surprise, he found himself no longer alone. Was it the Muse in dainty modern costume and delicately tinted cheek? Yes! it was one of those discarded Muses which sometimes remain upon the poet's hands as Fates.

      When she raised her veil she certainly looked more of a Fate than a Muse. Her expression was not agreeable. The poet, afterwards describing the incident and remembering his Dante, spoke of her in an allegorical sonnet as "lady of terrible aspect," and symbolised her as Nemesis.

      He now addressed her as "Annette," and in his voice were four notes of exclamation. She came closer to him, and very quietly, but with an accent that was the very quintessence of Ibsenism, made the somewhat mercantile statement: "I have come for my half-profits!"

      "Half-profits! What do you mean? Are you mad?"

      "Not in the least! I want my share in the profits of all this pretty poetry," and she contemptuously ran her finger over the several slim volumes on the poet's shelves which represented his own contributions to English literature.

      Rondel began to comprehend, but he was as yet too surprised to answer.

      "Don't you understand?" she went on. "It takes two to make poetry like yours —

'They steal their song the lips that sing  From lips that only kiss and cling.'

      Do you remember? Have I quoted correctly? Yes, here it is!" taking down a volume entitled "Liber Amoris," the passionate confessional which had first brought the poet his fame. As a matter of fact, several ladies had "stood" for this series, but the poet had artfully generalised them into one supreme Madonna, whom Annette believed to be herself. Indeed, she had furnished the warmest and the most tragic colouring. Rondel, however, had for some time kept his address a secret from Annette. But the light set upon a hill cannot be hid; fame has its disadvantages. To a man with creditors or any other form of "a past," it is no little dangerous to have his portrait in the Review of Reviews. A well-known publisher is an ever-present danger. By some such means Annette had found her poet. The papers could not be decorated with reviews of his verse, and she not come across some of them. Indeed, she had, with burning cheek and stormy bosom, recognised herself in many an intimate confession. It was her hair, her face, all her beauty, he sang, though the poems were dedicated to another.

      She turned to another passage as she stood there — "How pretty it sounds in poetry!" she said, and began to read:—

"'There in the odorous meadowsweet afternoon With the lark like the dream of a song in the dreamy blue,  All the air abeat with the wing and buzz of June, We met — she and I, I and she,' [You and I, I and you.] . ."

      Here Rondel at last interrupted —

      "Woman!" he said, are your cheeks so painted that you have lost all sense of shame?" But she had her answer —

      "Man! are you so great that you have lost the sense of pity? And which is the greater shame — to publish your sins in large paper and take royalties for them, or to speak of them, just you and I together — with none save God to know — you and I as 'there in the odorous meadowsweet afternoon!'

      "See, sir," she continued; "an artist pays his model at least a shilling an hour, and it is only her body he paints; but you use body and soul and offer her nothing. Your blues and reds are the colours you have stolen from her eyes and her heart — stolen, I say, for the painter pays so much a tube for his colours, so much an hour for his model, but you ——"

      "I give you immortality, poor fly, I give you amber," modestly suggested the poet.

      But Annette repeated the word "Immortality!" with a scorn that almost shook the poet's conceit, and thereupon produced an account, which ran as follows:—

      "I don't mind receipting it for two hundred and thirty," she said, as she handed it to him.

      Hyacinth was completely awakened by this: the joke was growing serious. So he at once roused up the bully in him, and ordered her out of his rooms. But she smiled at his threats, and still held out her account. At last he tried coaxing; he even had the insolence to beg her, by the memory of their past together, to spare him. He assured her that she had vastly overrated his profits, that fame meant far more cry than wool — that, in short, he was up to the neck in difficulties as it was, and really had nothing like that sum in his possession.

      "Very well, then," she replied at last, "you must marry me instead. Either the money or the marriage. Personally, I prefer the money" — Rondel's egoism twinged like a corn — "and if you think you can escape me and do neither, look at this!" and she drew a revolver from her pocket.

      "They are all loaded," she added. "Now, which is it to be?"

      Rondel made a movement as if to snatch the weapon from her, but she sprang back and pointed it at his head.

      "If you move, I fire."

      Now one would not need to be a minor poet to be a coward under such circumstances. Rondel could see that Annette meant what she said. She was clearly a desperate woman, with no great passion for life. To shoot him and then herself would be a little thing in the present state of her feelings. He was a prudent man for a poet — he hesitated, leaning with closed fist upon the table. She stood firm.

      "Come," she said at length, "which is it to be — the revolver, marriage, or the money?" She ominously clicked the trigger. "I give you five minutes."

      It was five minutes to eleven. The clock ticked on while the two still stood in their absurdly tragic attitudes — he still hesitating, she with her pistol in line with the brain that laid the golden verse. The clock whirred before striking the hour. Annette made a determined movement. Hyacinth looked up, he saw she meant it, all the more for the mocking indifference of her expression.

      "Once more — death, marriage, or the money?"

      The clock struck.

      "The money," gasped the poet.

*       *       *       *      *

      But Annette still kept her weapon in line.

      "Your cheque-book!" she said. Rondel obeyed.

      "Pay Miss Annette Jones, or order, the sum of two hundred and thirty pounds. No, don't cross it!"

      Rondel obeyed.

      "Now, toss it over to me. You observe I still hold the pistol."

      Rondel once more obeyed. Then, still keeping him under cover of the ugly-looking tube, she backed towards the door.

      "Good-bye," she said. "Be sure I shall look out for your next volume."

      Rondel, bewildered as one who had lived through a fairy-tale, sank into his chair. Did such ridiculous things happen? He turned to his cheque-book. Yes, there was the counterfoil, fresh as a new wound, from which indeed his bank account was profusely bleeding.

      Then he turned to his laurels; but, behold, they were all withered.

      So, after a while, he donned hat and coat, and went forth to seek a flatterer as a pick-me-up.