Next morning Leonard Upjohn appeared with a small wreath of laurel. He was pleased with his idea of crowning the dead poet with this; and attempted, notwithstanding Philip’s disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head; but the wreath fitted grotesquely. It looked like the brim of a hat worn by a low comedian in a music-hall.
“I’ll put it over his heart instead,” said Upjohn.
“You’ve put it on his stomach,” remarked Philip.
Upjohn gave a thin smile.
“Only a poet knows where lies a poet’s heart,” he answered.