"Oh, it doesn't do to hide one's light under a bushel! Nobody believes in you nowadays unless you advertise yourself."
"I thought self-praise was no recommendation."
"Quite a mistaken idea! To alter Shakespeare a little, one can say: Sweet are the uses of advertisement!"
"You must give us a better specimen of your poetry before we'll believe in you," said Mabel. "I shall call you a doggerel rhymster at present."
"All right! How do you like this?—
'Tis unkind, most naughty Mabel,
Your poor cousin's lines to label
As but trashy, worthless rhymes
Only fit for strolling mimes.
Don't you see the genius burning
In each verse that I am turning?
Some fine day—I'll give a hint—
You may see my name in print!"
"It will be among the advertisements, then," said Aldred. "I suppose you really made up that one?"
"Certainly; a poor thing, but mine own," said Francis, with an attempt at a bow. "You needn't clap, because, after all, I'm rather modest, and it might raise a blush on my cheek."
"We weren't going to—though we'd like to see the blush, I assure you!"
"Would you like another verse? I'm waxing poetical: I suppose it's a matter of practice."