"You remember?" He minded he had told her casually of the dog's name.
"Of course I remember! Shane, what does Duine uasal mean?"
"Gentilhomme," he translated.
"He has the eyes," she said.
The framed manuscript of his father's verses caught her eyes, and she looked at him in inquiry.
"What is it?"
"A poem of my father's, in Gaidhlig, Claire-Anne. 'The Bed of Rushes.'"
"How queer the letters are! Slim and graceful, and powerful, too. Would you read it, Shane?"
"Leaba luachra," he read, "a bed of rushes, bhi fúm aréir, was beneath me last night, agas do chaitheas amach é le banaghadb an lae, and I threw it out with the whitening of day. Thainic mo chéad grádh le mo thaobh, my hundred loves came to my side; guala ee qualainn, shoulder to shoulder, agas béal re béal, and mouth to mouth."
"Now I know you better, Shane."