The young man did not resent the insult. He did not even hear it. His eyes were still fixed upon the slim figure in the distance.
“‘Eyes of blue and hair red-gold,’” he said softly. “Red-gold. I had to put that because it’s got both colours in it. Red-gold, ‘Eyes of blue and hair red-gold.’ What rhymes with gold?”
“Cold,” suggested William brightly. “That’s jolly good, too, ’cause she has gotter cold. She was sneezing all last night.”
“No. It should be something about her heart being cold.
“Eyes of blue and hair red-gold,
Heart of ice—so stony cold——”
“That’s jolly good!” said William with admiration. “It’s just like what you read in real books—poetry books!”
The young man—James French by name—had met Ethel at an evening party and had succumbed to her charm. Lacking courage to pursue the acquaintance, he had cultivated the friendship of her small brother, under a quite erroneous impression that this would win him her good graces.
“What would you like most in the world?” he said suddenly, leaning forward from his seat on the top of the gate. “Suppose someone let you choose.”
“White rats,” said William without a moment’s hesitation.
The young man was plunged in deep thought.