She coughed, inclined her head a little to one side, in her mother's manner of politeness to callers, and, repeating her deprecatory laugh, remarked: "Well, of course it's kind of a funny question for me to ask, of course."
"What is, Florence?" Noble inquired absently.
"Well—what I was saying was that 'course it's sort of queer me askin' if you liked poetry, of course, on account of my writing poetry the way I do now."
She looked up at him with a bright readiness to respond modestly to whatever exclamation his wonder should dictate; but Noble's attention had straggled again.
"Has she written your mother lately?" he asked.
Florence's expression denoted a mental condition slightly disturbed. "No," she said. "It's goin' to be printed in The North End Daily Oriole."
"What?"
"My poem. It's about a vast amen—anyhow, that's proba'ly the best thing in it, I guess—and they're goin' to have it out to-morrow, or else they'll have to settle with me; that's one thing certain! I'll bring one over to your house and leave it at the door for you, Mr. Dill."
Noble had but a confused notion of what she thus generously promised. However, he said, "Thank you," and nodded vaguely.
"Of course, I don't know as it's so awful good," Florence admitted insincerely. "The family all seem to think it's something pretty much; but I don't know if it is or not. Really, I don't!"