And "Madam," says he very gallantly, "I'm incredibly obliged, for you've given me a rhyme."
"Oh! pray tell me—was it to 'white'?"
"Nay! ’twas harder than that," he murmurs.
"But I think that is monstrous difficult."
"Bright, sight, light," (cheerfully) "height," (regretfully) "night," (hopefully) and "fight," (fiercely).
"Indeed," adds Phyllida, "I thought of every one of them, but not one would fit the sense."
The young gentleman who is a rhymester himself, grows interested. "Might I," says he, "without impertinence inquire your necessity?"
"Sure, 'tis for a Valentine," and as Mr. Lovely's face darkens, she hurriedly adds, "for a young lady, a friend of mine, you'll see the direction writ on the flap."
His face clears again and he asks,
"You wish it delivered?"