My tangoing seemed to delight her; br With me it was love at first sight. br I mentioned That I was a writer: br She asked me: "What is it you write?" br "Oh, only best-sellers," I told her. br Their titles? . . . She shook her blonde head; br The atmosphere seemed to grow colder: br Not one of my books had she read. br br Oh, she was a beauty ensnaring, br And I was an author of note; br But little I saw she'd be caring br If never a novel I wrote. br Alas for the caprice of Cupid! br Alack for the phantom of Fame! br I thought her just homely and stupid: br She didn't know even my name. br br I saw her a score of years after; br She gushed as I took off my hat; br But inwardly loud was my laughter, br For she was enormously fat. br Thank heaven I'd not made that error; br I saw Love drive off in a hearse; br But I too retreated in terror . . . br She started to quote me my verse.