"Let me see. Yes," after she had looked straight into Blaney's eyes, "yes, you have beauty in your eyes."
"The reflection of your face," he replied, serenely. "You are a flower-face; I never saw any one who so well merited the term. I must write a sonnet to Flower Face."
"It can't be any better poetry than the verses you wrote to me at
Lakewood. They are exquisite. Mayn't I show them?"
"Please not. I fancied you would like to keep them just for yourself.
Stay, I have a better name for you. Flower Soul, that's what you are.
That shall be the theme of my sonnet. I think your soul is made of
white lilac."
"Why do you people always talk about souls?" asked Patty, gaily. "You don't mean souls really, you know; you mean—well, what do you mean?"
"No, we don't mean souls in the theological sense, we mean the higher understanding and finer sensations."
"Oh," said Patty, not much enlightened.
"And you are coming to see us soon, aren't you? Alla said you promised her you would."
"Yes, I did. And I will come. Do you have regular meetings, like a club,—or what?"
"Yes, like a club, but not on set dates. I'll let you know when the next one—or, stay, I know now. There will be a gathering at our place next Tuesday night. Will you attend? May I come and fetch you?"