“And where he wrote verses to a little dressmaker across the hall,” said William.
“Verses?” said Alexina. “Did he write verses? I never heard about the verses.”
“No?” said the son; “hasn’t he ever written verses to you? Well, since I’ve opened the way to it, I was leading up to it all the while, why I have. I’ll show ’em to you. I’ve had ’em in my pocket waiting the opportunity three days now.” Which was true. He had been going for them that first day.
He produced a small card photograph, somewhat faded, which, taken in Alexina’s hand, showed her a little girl’s serious face, with short-cropped hair.
“She had a nice, straight little nose, anyhow,” said Alexina approvingly, studying the card.
“Turn it over,” said William Leroy. He had a way of commanding people. Some day Alexina intended warring with him about it, but she turned it over now. The lines inscribed on its reverse were in a round and laboured script that, despite effort, staggered down hill.
“I wrote ’em,” said Willy Leroy, “moi—myself, with gulped-down tears at leaving you. I’ve never written any since.”
She was reading them.
“Out loud,” he commanded.
She read them aloud. She was laughing, but she was blushing absurdly, too.