"Splendid! Oh. Frank, I'm beginning to be afraid—to hope—that I didn't quite know you after all. Fancy you trying to write poetry—and about me! Let's write a verse now. I'll help you."
She whipped a mitten from her hand and sat with her fingers lightly drumming on her lips, summoning the muse.
"You'll have to write it," I said. "I'll sign it."
"All right!" she exclaimed at length, and turning to the huge drift behind us she traced on its hard surface with her forefinger this inscription:
If you will only be my wife, No matter what the past has been I'll take a broader view of life And try to keep you guessing, Jean.
"Oh, you used my rhymes!" I exclaimed. "But isn't that last line slangy?" I said, when we had it well laughed over and I had added at the side an idealistic sketch of Jean's face under a bridal veil. My drawing rather lost its point in the fact that I had to explain what it was.
"No, not slang—poetic license. That's a great advantage poets have; anything that isn't quite good English can always be called poetic license. Now sign it."
I signed it in bold, printed letters, and then we fell into silence.
"What's the answer, Jean?" I said at length.
"Oh, Frank, I can't give you an answer—not now. That may have been slang, about keeping me guessing, but it goes a long way down in one's nature. If you would only read, and study, and think, and learn to appreciate beautiful things—"