“Lotis became a lotus and Syrinx a clump of reeds. Pan gathered some and made himself pipes to play on.
“‘Poor nymph!—Poor Pan!—how he did weep to find
Naught but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain
Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain.’”
“Shelley, for a dollar,” he said questioningly.
She shook her head smilingly. “Keats,” she corrected.
“Oh, I have a way of getting them mixed, those two chaps.” He paused. “Do you know, it sounds odd nowadays to hear anyone quote poetry?”
“I suppose it does; I dare say it sounds very silly.”
“Not a bit of it! I like it! I wish I could do it myself. All I know, though, is
“‘The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair,
And Sir Thomas, my lord, was stout of limb,
But his breath was short, and——’
and so on. I used to recite that at school when I was a youngster; knew it all through; and I think there were five or six pages of it. I was quite proud of that, and used to stand on the platform Saturday mornings and just gallop it off. I think the humor appealed to me.”
“It must have been delightful!” she laughed. “But you haven’t got even that quite right!”