To this she responded with a promptness which surprised me:
"A certain young lady of fashion,
Had very good grounds for her passion,
It sprang from the pain
Of a terrible strain
On her friendship, and thus laid the lash on."
I felt that I must be equal to the situation, so I began rapidly:
"I'm sure the young man was as guiltless
As infant unborn and would wilt less
If thrown in the fire
Than under her ire——"
"Than under her ire," I repeated to myself. "Than under the ire"—what the dickens will rhyme with "wilt less"? We had reached the dining-room by this time and I could see that she was waiting with a provoking expression of satisfaction on her face over my having stalled in my attempt at a rhyme. I placed her in her chair and, as I took my own seat, a rhyme came to me—a poor one, but yet a rhyme:
"And since, Spanish castles he's built less,"
I said calmly as I seated myself, quite as if it had come easily.
"I was wondering how you'd get out of that," she said with a little smile which dimpled her cheek beguilingly. "You know you might have said,
"'And since, milk to weep o'er he's spilt less';
or even,