Margaret twanged the bow-string. “No time to fall in love?” she murmured. She fitted the shaft; let fly. “Do you like George, dear?”
Mary stooped to her shoe-laces. Despite her preparations the arrow had pierced, and she hid her face to hide the blood.
“George?” said she, head to floor.
“Yes, George. Do you like George?”
My Mary sat up, brazen. “George? Oh, you mean your cousin? I daresay he's very nice. Practically I've never even spoken to him since I've been here.”
“I know. Of course he's very busy just now. Do you think you would like him if you did know him?”
It was murderous work. Mary was beginning to quiver beneath the arrows; was in terror lest she should betray the secret. A desperate kick was necessary. She wildly searched for a foothold; found it; kicked:
“I'm sure I shouldn't like him.”
The poet softly protested: “Oh why, Mary?”
“He's clean-shaven.”