'I thought that I had seen them—something like them—somewhere before.' She went on reading. As she read she remembered the lines more clearly.
'What is the matter, Armorel?' asked Zoe. 'What makes you look so fierce? Heaven help your husband when you look like that!'
'Did I look fierce? It must have been something that I remembered. Yes—that was it.'
'May I read the verses again?' Zoe read them, suspiciously. There was something in them which had startled Armorel. What was it? She could see nothing to account for this emotion. Certainly she was not fond of poetry, and failed to appreciate the fine turns and subtle tones, the felicitous phrase and the unexpected thought with which the poet delights his readers. In this little poem she could find nothing but a few jingling rhymes. Why should Armorel behave so strangely?
'What is it, my dear?' she asked again.
'Something I remembered—nothing of any importance.'
'Armorel, has Alec said anything to you? Has he—has he wanted to make love to you? Has he offended you by speaking?'
'No. There has been no question of love-making between us, and there never will be.'
'One cannot say.' Zoe looked at the matter from experience. 'One can never say. Men are strange creatures; and Alec certainly thinks a great deal of you.'
'I cannot imagine his making love—any more than I can imagine his painting a picture or writing a poem. Perhaps he would make love as he paints.'