But, Patty, he doesn't approve of the Blaney crowd, either, and you know it." "That's because he doesn't understand them, and----" "Wait a minute.

Just what do you mean by understand them?
They speak English, I suppose." "How dense you are! There is much beside language of _words_ to be understood by kindred----" "Don't you dare say souls!" "I will,--I _do_ say _souls_! That's what has no meaning for you!" "Go on, Posy Face! You're pretty stunning when you get really stirred up!" Farnsworth's face broke into a broad smile, and Patty was so amazed at his sudden change of manner that it irritated her.
"Oh, I am, am I! Well, other people have thought so, too.

To the extent of putting it into poetry--real poetry!" "Such as what ?" Farnsworth was so cynical of tone, that Patty broke her pledge of secrecy to the small extent of quoting a few words from the poem Blaney had given her.
"Such as this," she cried: "-- --perhaps because her limpid face Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein The dimples found no place to anchor and Abide." "That is poetry, indeed!" agreed Farnsworth, looking at her quizzically.

"Did you say it was written to you ?" "Yes, Sam Blaney wrote it, to me.

I didn't mean to tell you, it's a confidential matter,--but you were so horrid about him----" "Wait a minute, Patty.