Her face is pensive; her large black eyes look dreamy. She asks abruptly:
"You like poetry?"
"Ye—es. Why?"
"I write. Oh, you don't believe me, do you? Here's something of mine," and with a preliminary cough, she begins to recite with exaggerated feeling:
Mother dear, the days were young
When posies in our garden hung.
Upon your lap my golden head I laid,
With pure and happy heart I prayed.
"I remember those days," she adds wistfully.
We sit in the dusk, without speaking. The lights are turned on, and my eye falls on a paper lying on the table. The large black print announces an excursion to Buffalo.
"Will you come with me?" I ask the girl, pointing to the advertisement.
"To Buffalo?"
"Yes."