“I can guess,” she said, “though there wasn’t a word with it—except——”
She ran to the sitting-room and returned with a slip of paper.
“Pearls may be fair, but thou art fairer.
Wear these for me, and I’ll love the wearer.”
He read it twice, then a dull red flush came on his face.
“And who do you guess it is?” he asked, with a ringing of anger in his voice.
“I suspect it’s Sam Adams,” she said, with a little virtuous indignation.
Whiston was silent for a moment.
“Fool!” he said. “An’ what’s it got to do with pearls?—and how can he say ‘wear these for me’ when there’s only one? He hasn’t got the brain to invent a proper verse.”
He screwed the sup of paper into a ball and flung it into the fire.
“I suppose he thinks it’ll make a pair with the one last year,” she said.