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vaguely with caro-carnis, and its derivatives, like carnival and carnation. Carminative—there was the idea of singing and the idea of flesh, rose-coloured and warm, with a suggestion of the jollities of mi-Carême and the masked holidays of Venice. Carminative—the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which . . .”
“Do come to the point, my dear Denis,” protested Mr. Scogan. “Do come to the point.”
“Well, I wrote a poem the other day,” said Denis; “I wrote a poem about the effects of love.”
“Others have done the same before you,” said Mr. Scogan. “There is no need to be ashamed.”
“I was putting forward the notion,” Denis went on, “that the effects of love were often similar to the effects of wine, that Eros could intoxicate as well as Bacchus. Love, for example, is essentially carminative. It gives one the sense of warmth, the glow.
‘And passion carminative as wine . . .’
was what I wrote. Not only was the line elegantly sonorous; it was also, I