“That is part of my thought,” said Spencer.
“Won’t you tell me the remainder?”
“May I?”
“Please do. I am in chastened mood.”
“I wish I was skilled in the trick of words, then I might say something real cute. As it is, I can only supply a sort of condensed statement,—something about a nymph, a moonlit lake, the spirit of the glen,—nice catchy phrases every one,—with a line thrown in from Shelley about an ‘orbéd maiden with white fire laden.’ Let me go back a hundred yards, Miss Wynton, and I shall return with the whole thing in order.”
“With such material I believe you would bring me a sonnet.”
“No. I hail from the wild and woolly West, where life itself is a poem; so I stick to prose. There is a queer sort of kink in human nature to account for that.”
“On the principle that a Londoner never hears the roar of London, I suppose?”
“Exactly. An old lady I know once came across a remarkable instance of it. She watched a ship-wreck, the real article, with all the scenic accessories, and when a half drowned sailor was dragged ashore she asked him how he felt at that awful moment. And what do you think he said?”
“Very wet,” laughed Helen.