"You as much as said it. Spoof may have advantages--I admit his travel, and all that--but will those things keep him big? Won't section Two bound him in a year or so, just as you say Fourteen bounds me now? Is he different clay; less ox, more soul?" "Section Two can never hold Spoof, because he--because he is _big_, don't you see? He reads, he thinks, he sings, he dreams. No section can hold one who does those things." "Does he write poetry?" I inquired, innocently. "I--I don't think so," said she, not scenting my trap, "but he is very fond of it. You should hear him read----" "Hear him read 'Come to me. . . . . Spoof!'" She turned to me fairly again. She had withdrawn her hands from mine and was crushing little crusts of snow between her mittens. Now she dropped the snow, shook her hands free of its powdery residue, then linked them about her knee. For a long moment she held me under her eyes without blinking. "So you saw that, did you?" "Jean--I'm sorry. I apologize. I saw it by accident--I couldn't help that. I could have helped speaking about it. I apologize." Then her eyes dropped. "It was very foolish," she murmured. "You have a right to be amused." "But I'm not amused," I protested. "And I'm not sure it is really foolish. At any rate, I'll confess something, Jean; when I found it I tried to write a poem--to you--but I couldn't. The only rhymes I could think of were Jean and bean." "Splendid! Oh. Frank, I'm beginning to be afraid--to hope--that I didn't quite know you after all. Fancy you trying to write poetry--and about me! Let's write a verse now. I'll help you." She whipped a mitten from her hand and sat with her fingers lightly drumming on her lips, summoning the muse. "You'll have to write it," I said. "I'll sign it." "All right!" she exclaimed at length, and turning to the huge drift behind us she traced on its hard surface with her forefinger this inscription: If you will only be my wife, No matter what the past has been I'll take a broader view of life And try to keep you guessing, Jean. "Oh, you used my rhymes!" I exclaimed. "But isn't that last line slangy?" I said, when we had it well laughed over and I had added at the side an idealistic sketch of Jean's face under a bridal veil. My drawing rather lost its point in the fact that I had to explain what it was. "No, not slang--poetic license. That's a great advantage poets have; anything that isn't quite good English can always be called poetic license. Now sign it." I signed it in bold, printed letters, and then we fell into silence. "What's the answer, Jean?" I said at length. "Oh, Frank, I can't give you an answer--not now. That may have been slang, about keeping me guessing, but it goes a long way down in one's nature. If you would only read, and study, and think, and learn to appreciate beautiful things--" "Oh, Jean, I do! I appreciate you."