"I did. I was worse than Psyche," she went on, "who blew out the candle—too late—the torch of inspiration—Oh, dear, that metaphor is very sadly mixed, Michael, but you understand what I mean. Do you pardon me?"
To reassure her I touched her hands which lay clasped in her lap. She gave a slight start, but as my hand settled and rested there upon both of hers she seemed to become unconscious of the contact.
"I had no idea that you could improvise so cleverly," she said.
"Nor I," said I, frankly. "It's true, however, that I've had some little practice in writing verses—er—recently."
"Have you been writing verses, Michael?"
"Yes."
"About what?"
"About you."
She became interested in my fishing line, and watched it intently. But it was only the current moving it.
"Thusis dear——"