“’Tisn’t geography; ’tis the ‘The Lady of the Lake.’”
“Is that a new game?”
“Dear me! did you never read ‘The Lady of the Lake?’—Sir Walter Scott’s poem—
‘The summer dawn’s reflected hue—’”
“Oh! I’ve learnt that in my extracts; but I never did my poetry task out of doors!”
“’Tisn’t a task—’tis beautiful poetry! Don’t you like poetry better than anything?”
“I like it better than all my other lessons, when it is not very long and hard.”
Kate felt that her last speech would have brought Armyn and Charlie down on her for affectation, and that it was not strictly true that she liked poetry better than anything, for a game at romps, and a very amusing story, were still better things; so she did not exclaim at the other Sylvia’s misunderstanding, but only said, “‘The Lady of the Lake’ is story and poetry too, and we will play at it.”
“And how?”
“I’ll tell you as we go on. I’m the King—that is, the Knight of Snowdon—James Fitzjames, for I’m in disguise, you know; and you’re Ellen.”