“I watch her dainty rose-bud mouth,
That trembles with the exquisite
And wondrous tide that steals from it
Of song, redolent of the South;
While o’er her April countenance,
The music of the quaint romance,
The sweeter for a sense of pain,
Sends sun and shade; and lost in dream,
Her sweet eyes softly flash and gleam
With golden smiles and diamond rain.”
“I hope she read it better than that,” laughed Mrs. Wyndwood, mirthfully.
“Well, she couldn’t make the fourth line scan anyhow,” he said.
“Oh, you mean ‘redolent.’ That’s another poetic license.”
“And Rosalind seems to be another,” he said, surlily.
“Oh no, I’m not Rosalind. I haven’t a dainty rose-bud mouth. Mine is a full-grown rose at least.” And her laugh showed the white teeth gleaming against the red lips.
Her arch laughing face so close to his across the little tea-table tantalized him intolerably.
“It is a red, red rose,” he whispered, hoarsely, half rising and bending over as if to survey it.
“Beware of the thorn!” she laughed, nervously, drawing back involuntarily. “And to think that but for the coast-guard who found Primitiva’s letter,” she rattled on hastily, “some other fair lady would have had the honor of the dedication.”
“One of the other Eleanors, perhaps,” he said, sulkily, sinking back into his chair.