George passed his manicured fingers through his thin hair, and looked self-conscious.
"I guess all the real poets are dead long ago," he said.
"I fear so," said Nancy.
"Mamma!" came Anne-Marie's voice, distinct and wide-awake, through the half-open door.
"Yes, dear," said Nancy. "Good-night."
"Mamma!" cried Anne-Marie. "Come here."
Nancy rose and went to her. Anne-Marie was sitting up in bed.
Nancy did not know.
"He said the poets were dead. All the real ones. You said poets could never die."