"Lovely!" she exclaimed. "Why, Frank! . . . That's from—from——"
"I have you guessing, Jean," I remarked, dryly.
"You memorized that on purpose; you dug a pit for me," she protested. "Still, better that than none. Come, 'fess up. Where is it?"
I drew my Byron from its place of concealment.
"Ah, if you had started at the beginning of the stanza with, 'There is a pleasure in the pathless wood,' I would have known," she said. "Still——"
We turned the pages together, lingering through a new land of delight that was delicious and wonderful. I read "She walks in Beauty," and we sat in silence after the lines,
"A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent."
"I'm not so sure, Frank," she said at length. "My mind is not so much at peace as I could wish; my love is perhaps not so——"
She left the sentence unfinished.
"I know it is," I said, "I know it is."