"Oh, come now, I can't help knowing that—any fool knows that!"
"Except me," put in the Ensign, pointedly. "However, I'll let the insult pass for the sake of the poem. Put in something about her mouth, can't you?"
The vision of Beatrice's scarlet, parted lips, with their dangerous curves, came before Robert.
"Reddest roses of the South
Are not sweeter than your mouth,"
he suggested.
"Man," said Ronald, soberly, "you're a genius. Write it down quick before it gets away. Now I'll read the whole thing:
"Lovely lady, take this basket;
'T is your willing slave who asks it.