Save wings for heaven; Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.”
“Evans,” said his mother, as he paused again, “that poem doesn’t seem to me exactly proper.”
He gave her a surprised glance. “Don’t spoil it for us, Mumsie.”
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Follette shrugged her nice shoulders, “we won’t argue. But when I was a girl we didn’t read things like that.”
“But this was written before you were a girl.”
“What difference does that make?”
“But the richness and color. You see it, Jane, don’t you?”
“Yes. Finish it, Evans.”
And when he came to the end, she said, “If only life were like that.”