And in spirit ripe for mischief, Ponty bethought him of a long-forgotten poem, and he went all the way down to Vieusseux to procure a volume of the works of Wordsworth. Henceforth, dreamily, from time to time, he would fall to repeating favourite lines. For nearly a day Ruth bore, with equanimity tempered by repartee, a volley of verse:
“He was a lovely youth, I guess”
said Ponty,
“The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he.”
“I cannot dispute it. He was good-looking,” Ruth suavely returned.
“But,”—this he let fall from the terrace an hour later, to Ruth engaged below in snipping dead leaves from Lucilla's clambering rose bushes,—
“But, when his father called, the youth
Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.”