Till a shy sudden silence falls between them,
A cloud across the sun of lightling banter.
O Jill, my gold-spoon cake-and-Moët miss!
Hast thou not dreamed, since thy first tam-o’-shanter,
Of soldier boy, of dance-night such as this?
Faintly they catch the polka’s throb, the canter
Of homing hansom-cab where lovers kiss:
And “Oh,” thinks he, “what eyes, what lips, what hair, too!”
And “Oh,” thinks she “the ninny doesn’t dare to.”
Voiceless, they sit: but now her eyes, upturning,