“Yes!” she answered. “Yes!” with a certain aloofness in her voice, which Sid, with the painful sensitiveness of a lover, did not miss.
“Is there anything the matter?” he asked.
“No,” she answered, speaking slowly, and with the same serious quietness of tone, as though she were thinking hard. “No! but I’ve got an idea. That last poem has set me thinking....”
“Curse the poem,” exclaimed Sid desperately, seizing hold of the volume.
“You can take it,” said Rosamund, to his surprise, “I don’t think I want to see it again either.”
“But surely, you are not allowing it to trouble you. It is all past and gone, and one cannot have reached thirty without some experiences. Even you, dear....”
“O yes, I know, but there’s a peculiarly deep ring about those last two lines, Sid—
O little girl, here’s a little boy
Will love you till Judgment day—
whatever you may say, you meant them pretty badly, Sid,” she added, turning upon him eyes whose recent mirth was replaced by a questioning gravity.
“Of course I meant them at the time, or thought I meant them. Besides, poetry always exaggerates,” answered Sid, writhing with explanation.