“And you don't like a—”
“I can't stand a—”
“But if he had a—”
“Oh, if he had a—Margaret, I hear Mr. Marrapit calling. I must fly.” She fled.
Upon a sad little sigh the poet moved to her table; drew heliotrope paper towards her; wrote:
“Why are your hearts asunder, ye so fair?”
A thought came to her then, and she put her pen in her mouth; pursued the idea. That evening she walked to the gate and met George upon his return. After a few paces, “George,” she asked, “do you like Mary?”
George was never taken aback. “Mary? Mary who?”
“Miss Humfray.”
“Oh, is her name Mary?”