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promise you
    that normally we devote ourselves to a lively discussion of the latest books and poetry. Why, just last
    week we were involved in the most intense analysis of Miss Austen's book, Pride and Prejudice. I was
    going to write you a letter on the subject."
    "What did you think of the novel?"
    "Well, it is all very pleasant in its way, I suppose. That is to say, Miss Austen is certainly a very fine
    writer. Wonderful gift for illuminating certain types of character, but…"
    "But?" He was curious in spite of himself.
    "The thing is, her subject matter is so very commonplace, don't you agree? She writes of such ordinary
    people and events."
    "Miss Austen is not Byron, I'll grant you that."
    "That is certainly true," Emily agreed in a rush of enthusiasm. "Her books are quite entertaining, but they
    lack the exciting, exotic qualities of Lord Byron's works, not to mention the spirit of adventure and the
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    excess of passion. The literary society just finished The Giaour."
    "And enjoyed it, I take it?"
    "Oh, yes. Such marvelous atmosphere, such remarkable adventures, such a thrilling sense of the darker
    passions. I adored it fully as much as Childe Harold. I cannot wait for Byron's next work."
    "You and most of London."
    "Tell me, sir, have you heard precisely how the G in Giaour is to be sounded? Hard or soft? We spent a
    great deal of time discussing the matter last Thursday and none of us could be certain, although Miss
    Bracegirdle, who has an excellent command of ancient history, believes it should be soft."
    "It is a topic which has not yet been resolved, to my knowledge," Simon hedged. He had not yet had a
    chance to read the poem and had no plans to do so. He had only dipped into romantic literature and
    poetry long enough to bait his trap. Now that the trap was about to close, he did not care if he ever read
    another epic poem of passion and adventure. He had far better things to do with his time.
    "Not that it matters greatly, I suppose," Emily assured him tactfully. "About the G, I mean."
    Simon shrugged. "I imagine it does to Byron." They had reached the stream and were now safely out of
    sight of the lane. He turned automatically and began to head to the right, moving upstream.
    Emily lifted the skirts of her faded riding habit with an artless grace that somehow imbued the aging
    costume with more style than it actually had. She glanced around curiously at the landscape. "Excuse me,
    my lord, but you appear to know where you are going. Do you remember this path from when you lived
    in the neighborhood as a child?"
    Simon slid her a sidelong glance. Of course, she had been bound to learn that bit of information fairly
    quickly. "How did you know my family had a home here?"
    "Lavinia Inglebright mentioned it."
    "It has been a long time since I lived in this neighborhood," Simon said cautiously.
    "Still, it is the most amazing coincidence, is it not? Just imagine, my lord, you began corresponding with
    me initially because you discovered quite by accident that I shared your great interest in romantic
    literature. And then we learn that you used to live near Little Dippington as a child. And now we have
    met. Most incredible."
    "Life is full of strange coincidences."
    "I prefer to think of it as fate. Do you know, I can just see you as a small boy running down here near this
    stream, perhaps with a dog. Did you have a dog, sir?"
    "I believe I did."
    Emily nodded. "I thought so. I myself come here frequently. Do you recall my poem entitled Verses on a
    Summer Day Beside a Pond?
    "Quite clearly."
    "I wrote them as I sat beside that little pond up ahead," she told him proudly. "Perhaps you recall a line or
    two?"
    Simon took one look at the hopeful expression in her green eyes and found himself desperately wracking
    his brain to recall a few words of the sweet but otherwise forgettable poem she had carefully set down in
    one of her recent