"Gracious me, have you
never had one before."
"Never."
"Well, he should make verses to you and pretty speeches. He
should sing serenades about undying love under your window.
Bonbons should bombard you, roses make your rooms a bower. He
should be ardent as Romeo, devoted as a knight of old. These be
the signs of a true love," she laughed.
Frances' face fell. If these were the tokens of true love, her
ranger was none. For not one of the symptoms could fairly be said
to fit him. Perhaps, after all, she had given him what he did not
want.
"Must he do all that? Must he make verses?" she asked blankly,
not being able to associate Bucky with poetasting.
"He must," teased her tormentor, running a saucy eye over her
boyish garb. "And why not with so fair a Rosalind for a subject?"
She broke off to quote in her pretty, uncertain English, acquired
at a convent in the United States, where she had attended school:
"From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures, fairest lin'd,
Are but black to Rosalind.
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