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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 letters. He was vastly relieved when his excellent memory came to his aid. He made a stab at the first two lines.
    "Behold yon pond where drops of sunlight gleam and glitter.
    It holds such wondrous treasures for I who am content to sit and dream here."
    "You remembered." Emily looked as thrilled as if he had just given her a fortune in gems. Then she blushed and added in a confiding tone, "I realize I ought to rework parts of it. I do not precisely care for the way 'dream here' rhymes with 'glitter.' Twitter or flitter would be better, don't you think?"
    "Well," Simon began carefully, "it is hard to say."
    "Not that it signifies at the moment," she told him cheerfully. "I am working on a major project and it will be some time before I get back to Verses on a Summer Day Beside a Pond."
    "A major project?" Somehow the conversation was beginning to get away from him, Simon realized.
    "Yes, I am calling it The Mysterious Lady. It is to be a long epic poem of adventure and the darker passions in the manner of Byron." She glanced up at him shyly. "You are the only one besides the members of the literary society whom I have told about it thus far, my lord."
    "I am honored," Simon drawled. "Adventure and dark passions, eh?"
    "Oh, yes. It is all about a young woman with hair the color of a wild sunset who goes in search of her lover who has disappeared. They were to be married, you see. But