“O sir, ye du be a mortal clever guesser—I were born in Sussex!” she answered.
“Sussex?” murmured Sir John. “Seely Sussex! I was born there too, ’twixt the sheltering arms of Firle and Windover.... The gentle South Downs ... I loved every velvet slope of them! I mind the sweet, warm scent of the wild thyme, and the dance of the scabious flowers in the wind ... ’tis years since I saw them last.”
“But the wild thyme is still sweet i’ the sun, sir, an’ the scabious flowers do be a-noddin’ an’ beckonin’ as we sit here.”
“Beckoning, child? ’Tis a sweet thought! Beckoning me back to England ... to the reverent stillness of the immemorial hills ... my loved Downs! Beckoning me back to the old house that has stood empty so long! Paris behind me, London before me ... but deep in my heart a memory of the silent Downs ... and of a better living.”
“’Ee du talk tur’ble strange, sir!” she exclaimed, her wide gaze searching his wistful features.
“’Tis the moon, child—blame the moon! Though her Lunatic Majesty doth usually afflict me with a poetic fervour that erupts in somewhat indifferent verse. But what o’ yourself, child? Whence are you—what do you so far from home?”
“Nay, sir,” she retorted, shaking her head, “you’m so clever you must guess if ye can.”
“Agreed!” smiled Sir John. “Suffer me to sit beside you—thus, and whiles we gaze up at stately Luna, Chaste Dian, Isis the mysterious, I, her most humble votary, will strive to rede thee thy past, present and future. And first—thy name? It should be sweet and simple like thyself and breathe of England. And if it is not Phyllida, it should be Rosamond or Lettice or Anthea or——”
“Nay, sir,” she sighed, “’tis only Rose!”
“Aye, and what better!” quoth he. “’Tis a sweet English name and easy to rhyme with. Let us try.” And with his gaze uplift to the moon, Sir John extemporised thus: