Lionel retorted emphatically:
“A clean miss!”
“Who is she?” asked Margot. “Name—name?”
He met her instantly. Never had she seen him so alert, so joyous.
“Ah! Our Forest has its nymphs. They show themselves to the Faithful. They dance with the pixies down our glades. Perhaps I met Euphrosyne.”
The Squire was delighted. He made sure that a seasonable word had fallen upon fruitful soil. And any allusion to poets whom he had read—Milton was one amongst few—provoked capping. He chuckled:
“Euphrosyne, b’ Jove! Heart-easing Mirth. I met the nymph,” he glanced at Lady Pomfret, “in a London ball-room, and grabbed her.”
“And tore her gown,” added Lady Pomfret.
“She forgave me sweetly, tearing my heart in two.”
Margot beckoned to Lionel, who sat down beside her. She said mockingly: