experienced enough to know, that holiness occasionally treads the human countenance on crow's feet.
"How do you like me best?" she said. "This way" (she showed her profile), "or that way?" (She looked him straight in the face.)
He gazed. "Are your eyes blue or brown?" he said: "in some lights they are brown, but that may be the effect of your lashes."
" I think," she said, "they are blue."
"They remind me of purple heather," said De Boys, with a certain dreaminess.
"Good gracious!" said Jane, blushing.
"And your mouth," he went on, warming to the subject, "is"
"My mouth is a straight line," she said, sharply. "And now we must make haste!" She started ahead and began to hum. The first strains were a reminiscence of "Pleasant are Thy courts below," but, as the melody swelled, it found words which were De Boys's own, and which were these:—
"Love is a bubble,
Love is a trouble,
Love is a sigh,
And love is a grin.
Love is sweet honey,
Love is cold money,
Love is a lie,
And love is a sin.
Love is a jig—
So tread you a measure;
Love is a dirge—
So fill you with grief;
Love is bright wine—
To quicken your pleasure;
Love's the North Wind—
And Man the dead leaf."
