Helen was incredulous.
“That sanctimonious old gentleman with the laurel leaves on his head and the very self-confident expression on his face?”
Armstrong nodded.
“Who spent all his life making love to another man’s wife from a safe distance?”
“Yes; this is one of his love-letters.”
“Then if I accept those lines you just repeated with so much feeling, I must be Laura?”
“But not another man’s wife.”
“I should have been if you had acted like that, Jack. Let me see how you look with a laurel wreath made of poppies.”
She drew his head down and tied the flowers about his forehead. Then, pushing him away from her, she clapped her hands with delight.
“There! if the noble Petrarch had looked like that, Madonna Laura could surely never have resisted him.”