"Then you are wasting your time, Mr. Moore, and I 'll thank you to say 'Mistress Dyke' in the future when you address me."
"I 'd like to say 'Mrs. Moore,'" replied the poet.
"What did you say, sir?" she demanded shortly, an angry flash in her eyes.
"I said I 'd know more some day."
"That is certainly to be hoped," said Bessie. "One should be sanguine, no matter how futile such cheerfulness may appear at the present time."
So far Moore had succeeded but poorly in breaking down the girl's reserve, and though painfully conscious of his failure, was nevertheless quite resolved that the interview should not end with their present attitudes unaltered.
That she herself was not averse to listening to his arguments this evening was already fully proved, for she had made no effort to conclude their conversation, and in fact seemed waiting with no little interest for the next attempt he might make to restore himself to his old-time place in her regard.
"Mistress Dyke," began Moore, hopefully, favoring the girl with a look as languishing as love could make it, "do you know what your mouth reminds me of as you sit there?"
"Cherries?" suggested the girl promptly. "I believe that is the usual comparison made by lame-witted poets."
"No, indeed. Cherries conceal pits, and, as you no doubt remember, Joseph fell into one. Now I am no Joseph."