Margaret said hurriedly: “Oh, nothing worth speaking of.”
Mary said: “Oh!”; gave her thoughts again to the train.
It was wretched of her. “Poems,” said Margaret, and stressed the word “Poems.”
Mary came flying back from the train. “Oh, how interesting that is!”
At once Margaret drew away. “Oh, it is nothing,” she said, “nothing.” She put her eyes upon the far clouds; breathed “Nothing” in a long sigh.
From this it was not a far step to reading, with terrible reluctance, her poems to Mary; nor from this again was it other than an obvious step to telling of Bill. Her pretty verses were so clearly written at some heart which throbbed responsive, that Mary must needs put the question. It came after a full hour's reading—the poet sitting upon her bed in a litter of manuscripts, Mary in a low chair before her.
In a tremulous voice the poet concluded the refrain of an exquisite verse:
“Beat for beat, your heart, my darling,
Beats with mine.
Skylarks carol, quick responsive,
Love divine.”
The poet gave a little gulp; laid down her paper.
Mary also gulped. From both their pretty persons emotion welled in a great flood that filled the room.