“A nonsense rhyme,” suggested Elise, falling in with his metaphor.
“Yes; how quick you are to see what I mean. Now, Clementine is a lyric,—she glides so gracefully along.”
“And I?” asked Elise, laughing at his witty characterisation.
“You? Well, I can’t judge unless I see you. Skate off by yourself.”
Elise did so, and Kenneth watched the scarlet-clad figure gracefully pirouetting and skilfully executing difficult steps.
“Well?” she said, as she returned to him, and again they joined hands and glided along in unison.
“Well, you’re delightful on ice. You’re a will o’ the wisp.”
“But I want to be a poem of some sort. The other girls are.”
Kenneth smiled at the pretty, anxious face.
“You are a poem. You’re one of those little French forms. A virelay or a triolet.”