"Oh," said Forsyth. He was wondering how the girl in Fort Wayne would like the poem, and longed to ask questions about her, but felt that it would be improper.
"'Forge' is the only thing I can think of for a rhyme," said the Ensign, at length; "that wouldn't do, would it?"
"My heart is burning like a forge,
All because I love you—George."
"How's that?"
Ronald's delight knew no bounds. "The very thing!" he shouted. "Now, all we have to do is to put two lines above it and it will be done. That's the end of the verse, you know."
"Might put her name in," suggested Robert, not without guile.
Ronald appeared to consider it carefully. "No," he said, "that wouldn't do. One name is enough to have in it. Something ought to go in about her looks, don't you think so—eyes, or mouth, or skin?"
"'Skin,'" repeated Robert, laughing; "girls never have 'skin.' They call it their 'complexion.'"
"Thought you didn't know anything about women," George said, looking at him narrowly.