Lady Clara Vere de Vere br Was eight years old, she said: br Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread. br br She took her little porringer: br Of me she shall not win renown: br For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her br down. br br "Sisters and brothers, little Maid? br There stands the Inspector at thy door: br Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four." br br "Kind words are more than coronets," br She said, and wondering looked at me: br "It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.