“I didn’t like Wells’ last book. It was very disappointing. Not much plot. Too heavy. But Harold Bell Wright has a corking story. It’s just like life!”
Robert liked Margaret’s make-believe mood, during which she pretended to be giving expression to some inner spirit through the medium of verse. Pretense, after all, was something. And she pretended without in the least attempting to deceive. It was just a game. Of course, she expected him to return her little sallies with others in kind or with graceful, flowery compliments, which he could do skilfully. For instance, if she, coming to a dark spot in the road, and letting go of his arm, suddenly cried: “Thou know’st the wash of night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,” he would reply: “Lady, by yonder blessed moon, I swear”—or something about Stygian darkness, and they would both laugh.
“Why don’t you ever write poetry?” asked Margaret, as they stopped before her house. “I think you ought to write something splendid. I have a trade-last for you.”
“Oh, have you? What is it? I’m all ears.”
“But you must tell me one first,” she pouted.
That struck him as another one of her childish absurdities.
“Oh, I—a—know some one who thinks you’re the prettiest girl in Corinth.”
“Do you? Who’s that?”
“Guess?”
“Can’t.”