“Yes, there's one beginning:
“'Sweet as the wind-lute's airy strains Your gentle muse has learned to sing, And California's boundless plains Prolong the soft notes echoing.'”
“It sounds familiar,” Mrs. Mortimer said, pondering.
“And there was another I remember that began:
“'I've stolen away from the crowd in the groves, Where the nude statues stand, and the leaves point and shiver,'—
“And it run on like that. I don't understand it all. It was written to my father—”
“A love poem!” Mrs. Mortimer broke in. “I remember it. Wait a minute.... Da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da—STANDS—
“'In the spray of a fountain, whose seed-amethysts Tremble lightly a moment on bosom and hands, Then drip in their basin from bosom and wrists.'
“I've never forgotten the drip of the seed-amethysts, though I don't remember your mother's name.”
“It was Daisy—” Saxon began.