“As a matter of fact she never said it at all,” said the boy, folding it up. “That’s only because it’s poetry. And I only used her name for the rhyme.”
“Yes, I see. You’re very clever!”
“Don’t you see any faults in it? I wish you’d tell me straight out exactly what you think, if you see anything wrong,” said Clifford, like all young writers who think they are pining for criticism but are really yearning for praise. “I would like,” he said, “for you to find any fault you possibly could! Say exactly what you really mean.”
He really thought he meant it.
“Well, I don’t see one fault! I think it’s perfect,” replied Cissy, like all intelligent women in love with the writer. Her instinct warned her against finding any fault. Had she found any it would have been the only thing Clifford would have thought she happened to be wrong about. As it was, his opinion of her judgment and general mental capacity went up enormously, and he decided that she was a very clever kid. A decent little girl too, and not at all bad looking.
“But aren’t they a little short, Cissy?” he asked.
“Perhaps they are. But you can easily make them longer, can’t you?”
“Oh yes, rather, of course I can.”
“Don’t you want mummy to see them?”
“Oh no, I don’t think I do; wouldn’t she laugh at me?”