Swinburne knew
for certain that no copy had been there twelve years ago, and was
surprised that he had not heard of the acquisition. `They might have
told me,' he wailed.
I sacrificed myself on the altar of sympathy. I admitted that I might
have been mistaken--must have been--must have confused this play with
some other. I dipped into the pages and `No,' I shouted, `this I have
never read.'
His equanimity was restored. He was up the ladder and down again,
showing me further treasures with all pride and ardour. At length,
Watts-Dunton, afraid that his old friend would tire himself, arose
from his corner, and presently he and I went downstairs to the dining-
room. It was in the course of our session together that there suddenly
flashed across my mind the existence of a play called `The Country
Wife,' by--wasn't it Wycherley? I had once read it--or read something
about it.... But this matter I kept to myself. I thought I had
appeared fool enough already.
I loved those sessions in that Tupperossettine dining-room, lair of
solid old comfort and fervid old romanticism. Its odd duality befitted
well its owner. The distinguished critic and poet, Rossetti's closest
friend and Swinburne's, had been, for a while, in the dark ages, a
solicitor; and one felt he had been a good one.
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