Patty smiled. "I don't want it in corroboration of your assertion, but I'd love to have it. I'd like to know more poetry, Billee. As you so delicately hinted, my education on such matters is a little lacking."
"That's your own fault," said Farnsworth, bluntly. "Poetry isn't a thing to learn at school,—but alone, and at odd times and moments."
"It seems queer," and the earnest little face gazed into his, "for you to know such a lot about poetry. You're so——"
"Go on; don't mind hurting me. So uncouth, awkward, clumsy, lacking in—er—understanding, wasn't it?"
Farnsworth spoke bitterly, and his deep blue eyes were clouded.
"No," Patty returned, gently, "no, I didn't mean all those horrid things, and you know it! I meant, you're so busy with your mines and things, and so wrapped up in your business that it's surprising to know you have time for poetry."
"It's my theory that one can always find time for anything he really wants to do?"
"Can he? Do you suppose, then, you could find time to teach me a little bit about poetry, and how to study it,—or, don't you really want to do this?"
Farnsworth looked at her, and a great and tender light came into his eyes. Then, with a quick smile, he said, lightly, "Yes, indeed; I'll make out a list of books for you tomorrow. May I send them to you?"
Patty was aware of a sudden lack of enthusiasm in Farnsworth's manner, and with equal coolness, she said, "Thank you, that won't be necessary. Just send the list, and I can get them. And, now I think I must begin to commence to think about considering going home."