"Will you permit me to see what author engages your attention?" said Ronald Valchester; and the singer quietly laid the book in his hand.
He opened it, and she smiled very faintly as she saw the sensitive color mount to his cheeks.
"I presume they are your own poems, Mr. Valchester?" she said; and he shivered at the sweetness of her low voice.
The rushing tide of memory poured over his soul overwhelmingly. He lifted his eyes and looked fully at the beautiful woman.
"Yes, they are mine," he answered, trembling as the beautiful dark eyes met his own.
As they held his glance a moment he saw how grave and sad they were, and the white brow suggested lines he had somewhere read:
"How noble and calm was that forehead
'Neath its tresses of dark, waving hair;
The sadness of thought slept upon it,
And a look that a seraph might wear."
"Ah, Mr. Valchester," she said, lightly, it seemed to him, "I told you long ago that you were a poet, and you denied it."
He bent toward her eagerly, his blue-gray eyes growing bright and dark with excitement.