_With pain's sharpest point transfix it, And then carve in letters fair, Tender dreams and quaint devices, Fancies sweet and rare._ _Set within it Hope's blue sapphire, Many-changing, opal fears, Blood-red ruby-stones of daring, Mixed with pearly tears._ "Hope's red ruby!" exclaimed Mr. Alison. "That's really uncommonly fine, I think." _And when you have wrought and labored Till the gift is all complete, You may humbly lay your offering At the Lady's feet._ _Should her mood perchance be gracious-- With disdainful smiling pride, She will place it with the trinkets Glittering at her side._ "I got muddled in that song," Mr. Alison confessed. "I don't think it's as good as the first one. Mary, before another song begins, may I tell you that I love you? May I ask you to be my wife? I know that you do not love me yet. But you might learn to love me. Mightn't you, Mary? You're very young. I can wait, now that I have delivered my message at the golden gate. Now I shall always reverence that song, Mary. To my dying day. It seems to me sitting here beside you at this moment more like a sacred song than just ordinary poetry. I wonder who wrote it?" "I wonder," echoed Mary, glad to find the conversation turning away from personalities to literature. "I suppose it wasn't Shakespeare?" Mr. Alison hazarded. "No, I don't _think_ it was Shakespeare." "He wrote such a lot of well-known stuff," said Mr. Alison. "One's pretty safe five times out of ten to guess Shakespeare. But, Mary, you have not replied to my question. May I hope? May I set in my heart Hope's red ruby?" "It was Hope's blue sapphire," she corrected. "Well, whatever jewel it was, may I hope?" "I hadn't expected anything like this," said Mary, wondering whether it would create general consternation if she were to jump up from her seat and rush out of the conservatory. "I know it seems sudden; but it's not really so sudden. All the time I've been in the south of France I've been thinking about you. I tried to drown my despair by playing roulette. In fact, I won quite a lot of money, because I played so recklessly." Mary turned pale. Could her existence really affect a man of the world like Mr. Alison up to the point of reckless gambling? "I felt in my inmost being that you could not love me. You're as much above me as a--as a--as an angel!" He tried not to look proud of the simile. "I know I am not worthy of you, Mary. I know that. But I have said enough. You look agitated. Please do not let my impetuosity distress you. Hark! Somebody else is going to sing." The deep notes of a voluptuous contralto broke into the murmur of small talk like a dinner-gong. "Don't forget, Mary," said Mr. Alison, when the sonorous abracadabra of an Italian song had died away in loud applause. "I have delivered my message, and I am content to wait. Shall I take you downstairs and get you an ice?" "Oh, thank you, Mr. Alison."