“I don’t know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite with them and with me.”
“I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a copy here—made by yourself;” and he looked towards her paper-case.
There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman were looking.
“Let me see,” he said, as she paused to open the MS., “he told me the thoughts were more yours than his own.”
“Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long ago talked over between us; the rest is all his own.”
Here Mr. Ogilvie took the paper, and Ethel saw his countenance show evident tokens of surprise and feeling.
“Yes,” he said presently, “May goes deep—deeper than most men—though I doubt whether they will applaud this.”
“I should like it better if they did not,” said Ethel. “It is rather to be felt than shouted at.”
“And I don’t know how the world would go on if it were felt. Few men would do much without the hope of fame,” said Norman Ogilvie.
“Is it the question what they would do?” said Ethel.