"No-no, not in tone am I," Gwen feigned.
"How about a Welsh hymn? Come in will I at the repeats."
"Messes Lloyd will sing the piano?"
"Go must she about her duties. She's a handless poor dab."
Gwen played and sang.
"Solemn pretty hymns have we," said Ben. "Are we not large?" He moved and stood under a picture which hung on the wall—his knees touching and his feet apart—and the picture was that of Cromwell. "My friends say I am Cromwell and Milton rolled into one. The Great Father gave me a child and He took him back to the Palace. Religious am I. Want I do to live my life in the hills and valleys of Wales: listening to the anthem of creation, and searching for Him under the bark of the tree. And there I shall wait for the sound of the last trumpet."
"A poet you are." Gwen was astonished.
"You are a poetess, for sure me," Ben said. He leaned over her. "Sparkling are your eyes. Deep brown are they—brown as the nut in the paws of the squirrel. Be you a bard and write about boys Cymru. Tell how they succeed in big London."
"I will try," said Gwen.
"Like you are and me. Think you do as I think."