“You look as if you found the nymph at home,” said Rose, knowing how much he liked the “Comus.”
“I found her here,” and he made a little bow.
“That's very pretty, and I'll give you one in return. You grow more like Uncle Alec every day, and I think I'll call you Alec, Jr.”
“Alexander the Great wouldn't thank you for that,” and Mac did not look as grateful as she had expected.
“Very like, indeed, except the forehead. His is broad and benevolent, yours high and arched. Do you know if you had no beard, and wore your hair long, I really think you'd look like Milton,” added Rose, sure that would please him.
It certainly did amuse him, for he lay back on the hay and laughed so heartily that his merriment scared the squirrel on the wall and woke Dulce.
“You ungrateful boy! Will nothing suit you? When I say you look like the best man I know, you gave a shrug, and when I liken you to a great poet, you shout. I'm afraid you are very conceited, Mac.” And Rose laughed, too, glad to see him so gay.
“If I am, it is your fault. Nothing I can do will ever make a Milton of me, unless I go blind someday,” he said, sobering at the thought.
“You once said a man could be what he liked if he tried hard enough, so why shouldn't you be a poet?” asked Rose, liking to trip him up with his own words, as he often did her.
“I thought I was to be an M.D.”