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Page 7
So Gervase sat and told
his travel tales,
Not ill content to be a hero, pleased
With the girls' eager questions and the praise
And half-approving blames of his good aunt,
And Evelyn's quiet smiles. He took amiss
The break, when suddenly a gipsy face,
A quaint face, olive, but with hair all glow,
Like sunshine on brown rivers, crowning it,
Peeped in behind the door, and Constance called
"Lota come in," and, giving sudden chase,
Brought her among them, ruffled and half-cross -
A lithe slight creature, looking scarcely more
Than a girl-grown child; with a rebellious pout,
And a sort of sudden fitful prettiness
Which flickered and died out by moments. "This"
Said Mrs Westland, "is my ward and niece,
Whose name is Lota." Gervase, having made
His reverence and noticed the quick grace
Of Lota's answering movement, asked "But I?
Am I to call her Lota? for you give
No other name." But Lota, with her cheeks
A vivid painful crimson, answered him
In lofty fashion, slowly. "I am called
Miss Deveril." He bowed and let her be:
She did not please him; though she instantly
Spoke with a kindness in her voice and eyes
"I would not have attempted that vain flight
If I had known 'twas you. My cousins speak
As if you were a friend." And Ethel laughed,
And said "Moreover Lota knows, alas!
That she cannot, with all her hermit ways,
Escape from meeting you at last, and so
She plucks her nettle boldly." Gervase smiled
"Miss Deveril is kind then to forgive
The nettle for upspringing in her path,"
And that was all. At night, when he sat still
Beside his dying fire, his dreaming sense
Was filled with Evelyn, whose fair sweet face
Would come uncalled; and, if he thought at all
Of Lota, it was as a cross-grained sprite
Unsociable perversely, but not shy,
Who seemed beside calm gracious Evelyn
The olive that gives zest to generous wine.
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