Two scalding tears in Elizabeth’s eyes—two and no more. The others burned her heart.
And the thought stayed with her.
That evening after dinner Elizabeth looked up from her embroidery. The silence had grown to be too full of thoughts. She could not bear it.
“What are you reading, David?” she asked.
He laughed and said:
“Sentimental poetry, ma’am. Would you have suspected me of it? I find it very soothing.”
“Do you?”
She paused, and then said with a flutter in her throat:
“Do you ever write poetry now, David? You used to.”
“Yes, I remember boring you with it.”