"No one could laugh at you for that," said Ronald Valchester, kindly.
He was leaning against the tree carelessly, and Jaquelina sat on the rustic bench beneath it, the soft, white folds of her dress falling on the velvety green turf. A little beyond them was the square-cut cedar hedge that bounded the trim lawn.
Jaquelina did not know what dark, gleaming eyes watched her beauty, as she sat there with the light falling down on her girlish face and form.
She was looking at her companion, and recalling the words in which Walter Earle had praised him.
"He is handsome, too," she said to herself. "What a beautiful, high, white brow, and clear-cut face. Mr. Earle must be very proud to have him for his friend."
"Mr. Valchester, are you a poet?" she asked, suddenly.
"No one ever accused me of being one," he answered, laughing. "Why do you ask me, Miss Meredith?"
"You look like one," she said.
Ronald Valchester laughed again.