'No—not that'
'Shall I read you a novel?'
'I think I should like to hear some poetry today,' he answered.
She had taken up a pretty, tiny little book that lay on his table, called Lyrists of the Restoration, and began to read aloud:
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'Phyllis is my only joy,
Faithless as the winds or seas,
Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please.'
'Oh, please, stop,' Aylmer cried.
She looked up.
'It tinkles like an old-fashioned musical-box. Try another.'
'What would you like?' she asked, smiling.
He took up a French book and passed it to her.