At least, that is the way, to chaps Who sauntered in the hall, Things looked; but then, of course, perhaps, ’Twas nothing after all.
For, though on spooning they seemed bent, Regardless how time flew, ’Twas possible that “distance lent Enchantment to the view.”
His face bent down until her brow Seemed touched by his mustache, While she smiled on him—well, just how A girl smiles on her mash.
He whispered something low and sweet, And pointed down to where Two little blue-silk-slippered feet Were making people stare.
She blushed, and thrust one farther out, As if for him to see; A look of pain o’er came her pout: What ever could it be?
“Sure, never did a girl with man So brazenly coquette In public,” said, behind her fan, Each other girl you met.
I’ll own appearances, indeed, Were much against the maid; But, as in many things we heed, Of harm there was no shade.
How this I know, I’ll tell to you: I chanced to stand quite near Upon the stairs, behind the two, And then to overhear.
A long time passed, while neither spoke, And then at last said he,— “I’m sick of this: I’m sure you joke; Your foot’s quite well, I see.
“You could, if you but cared to try, With me come down and dance.” Now, notice how her quick reply Destroys the scene’s romance.