"I am sure I should love it, if it were my lot—the white stems on my arms and the warm sun on my face, and the songs in the wagon, at dusk. Listen to that man singing there—I'm sure he is just glad of life."
"A strange man," said the poet, following her gaze. "A most curious, fortunate person."
"You know him?"
"A little—he is quite a Napoleon of hearts."
Mollie laughed.
"He doesn't look even a little bit romantic."
"Oh, he isn't. I fancy the romance, if there is any, must be usually on the other side. He has had four or five offers of marriage."
"What a perfectly horrid idea."
The poet stroked his chin.
"Yet think of the confusion and questioning of heart, and of the hours of agony that it would save a diffident man."