Arnold returned the look (Geoffrey was unquestionably in the way!).

Their eyes met tenderly (why couldn't the great awkward brute write his letters somewhere else ?).

With a faint little sigh, Blanche dropped resignedly into one of the comfortable arm-chairs--and asked once more for "some poetry," in a voice that faltered softly, and with a color that was brighter than usual.
"Whose poetry am I to read ?" inquired Arnold.
"Any body's," said Blanche.

"This is another of my impulses.

I am dying for some poetry.