‘What?’
‘I’ll tell it.’
She spoke the lines prettily, and put away her rustic accent, all but the music:
‘“Down in the West dwells my lady Clare:
Blow, O balmy wind, from the West!
Bathe me in odours of her hair,
Bring me her thoughts ere she fell to rest!
‘“Beam, O moon, through her casement bars;
Bathe in thy glory her glorious hair:
Keep guard over her, sentinel stars;
Watch her and keep her, all things fair!”’
‘You didn’t make that up out of your own head, did ee, Paul?
‘Yes,’ said Paul.
Here was his divinity reciting the lines with which she herself had inspired him.
‘Now, couldn’t ee make a piece of poetry about me?’ she asked.
Paul’s heart gave one great thump at his breast and stopped.
‘That was about you,’ he said.