"My goodness, Mattie! have you been taking lessons of that gentleman poet you mentioned? Where does he live!"
"At Lindenholm—his mother owns it, and came there two years ago, when she was left a widow. Her husband was a curate."
"Then I don't believe your Earle Moray is very rich. He is just a farmer, if he has only Lindenholm. I remember the place, half villa, half farm-house, with great linden trees around it. Does he write books?"
"He has written one small one—'Songs of the Country-side.' I have it here. You can read it; it is like music."
"Ta, ta! I hate poetry. What does the man look like?"
"Why, he looks as he is, a gentleman, a good man."
"I foresee I shall have a surfeit of goodness here. If the man is neither rich nor handsome, he will hardly pay to flirt with, unless one is desperate."
"To flirt with!" cried Mattie, aghast. "You would not flirt, Doris?"
"And why wouldn't I?"
"Why, it is wicked. It is cruel, it is deceitful."