"I'm crazy about you in this meek, sensitive pose of yours, and I'm fascinated by those masterful moments you flash occasionally. Really, Nick, I almost wish you flamed out oftener." "Don't!" he said sharply. "Why not?" "Let's not talk about me, Pat. It--embarrasses me." "All right, Mr. Modesty! Let's talk about me, then. I'll promise we won't succeed in embarrassing me." "And it's quite the most interesting subject in the world, Pat." "Well, then?" "What?" "Why don't you start talking? The topic is all attention." He chuckled. "How many men have told you you were beautiful, Pat?" "I never kept account." "And in many different ways?" "Why? Have you, perchance, discovered a new way, Nick?" "Not at all. The oldest way of any, the way of Sappho and Pindar." "O-ooh!" She clapped her hands in mock delight. "Poetry!" "The only medium that could possibly express how lovely you are," said Nick. "Nicholas, have you gone and composed a poem to me?" "Composed? No. It isn't necessary, with you here beside me." "What's that? Some very subtle compliment?" "Not subtle, Pat. You're the poem yourself; all I need do is look at you, listen to you, and translate." "Neat!" applauded the girl. "Do I hear the translation?" "You certainly do." He turned his odd amber-green eyes on her, then bent forward to the road. He began to speak in a low voice. "In no far country's silent ways Shall I forget one little thing-- The soft intentness of your gaze, The sweetness of your murmuring Your generously tender praise, The words just hinted by a breath-- In no far country's silent way, Unless that country's name be Death--" He paused abruptly, and drove silently onward. "Oh," breathed Pat. "Why don't you go on, Nick? Please." "No. It isn't the mood for this night, Dear. Not this night, alone with you." "What is, then?" "Nothing sentimental. Something lighter, something--oh, Elizabethan. That's it." "And what's stopping you?" "Lack of an available idea. Or--wait. Listen a moment." He began, this time in a tone of banter. "When mornings, you attire yourself For riding in the city, You're such a lovely little elf, Extravagantly pretty! And when at noon you deign to wear The habit of the town, I cannot call to mind as fair A symphony in brown. "Then evenings, you blithely don A daintiness of white, To flash a very paragon Of lightsomeness--and light! But when the rounds of pleasure cease, And you retire at night, The Godling on your mantelpiece Must know a fairer sight!" "Sweet!" laughed Pat. "But personal. And anyway, how do you know I've a godling on my mantel? Don't you credit me with any modesty?" "If you haven't, you should have! The vision I mentioned ought to enliven even a statue."