'
She quietly arranged a pillow behind him and took up a newspaper.
He often liked her to read to him; he never listened to a word of it,
but it was soothing.
She had taken up 'This Morning's Gossip' from _The Daily Mail_, and she
began in the soft, low, distinct voice reading from The Rambler:
'Lord Redesdale says that when Lord Haldane's scheme for a Territorial
Army was on foot he took it to the--'
Aylmer stopped her.
'No--not that'
'Shall I read you a novel?'
'I think I should like to hear some poetry today,' he answered.
She had taken up a pretty, tiny little book that lay on his table,
called _Lyrists of the Restoration_, and began to read aloud:
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'_Phyllis is my only joy,
Faithless as the winds or seas,
Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please_.'
'Oh, please, stop,' Aylmer cried.
She looked up.
'It tinkles like an old-fashioned musical-box. Try another.'
'What would you like?' she asked, smiling.
He took up a French book and passed it to her.
'You'll think I'm very changeable, but I should like this. Read me the
beginning of _La-Bos_.'
And she began.
He listened with his eyes closed, lulled by the curious technique, with
its constant repetitions and jewelled style, charmed altogether.
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