"Such as this," she cried:
"——perhaps because her limpid face
Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein
The dimples found no place to anchor and
Abide."
"That is poetry, indeed!" agreed Farnsworth, looking at her quizzically. "Did you say it was written to you?"
"Yes, Sam Blaney wrote it, to me. I didn't mean to tell you, it's a confidential matter,—but you were so horrid about him——"
"Wait a minute, Patty. Is that an original poem, that Blaney wrote for you alone?"
"Yes, it is. I promised not to tell it to anybody, so I'll ask you to say nothing about it."
"Tell me more of it."
"No, I won't. I promised not to."
"You needn't. I'll tell you what comes next:
'——perhaps because her tresses beat
A froth of gold about her throat, and poured
In splendour to the feet that ever seemed
Afloat.'