Mary motioned him not to talk, because people were beginning to turn round and peer at the palms among which they were sitting, curious to know what discordant mutter was profaning the music.
With pain's sharpest point transfix it,
And then carve in letters fair,
Tender dreams and quaint devices,
Fancies sweet and rare.
Set within it Hope's blue sapphire,
Many-changing, opal fears,
Blood-red ruby-stones of daring,
Mixed with pearly tears.
"Hope's red ruby!" exclaimed Mr. Alison. "That's really uncommonly fine, I think."
And when you have wrought and labored
Till the gift is all complete,
You may humbly lay your offering
At the Lady's feet.
Should her mood perchance be gracious—
With disdainful smiling pride,
She will place it with the trinkets
Glittering at her side.
"I got muddled in that song," Mr. Alison confessed. "I don't think it's as good as the first one. Mary, before another song begins, may I tell you that I love you? May I ask you to be my wife? I know that you do not love me yet. But you might learn to love me. Mightn't you, Mary? You're very young. I can wait, now that I have delivered my message at the golden gate. Now I shall always reverence that song, Mary. To my dying day. It seems to me sitting here beside you at this moment more like a sacred song than just ordinary poetry. I wonder who wrote it?"
"I wonder," echoed Mary, glad to find the conversation turning away from personalities to literature.
"I suppose it wasn't Shakespeare?" Mr. Alison hazarded.
"No, I don't think it was Shakespeare."
"He wrote such a lot of well-known stuff," said Mr. Alison. "One's pretty safe five times out of ten to guess Shakespeare. But, Mary, you have not replied to my question. May I hope? May I set in my heart Hope's red ruby?"
"It was Hope's blue sapphire," she corrected.