He seated himself and opened the parcel; within was a small square book in flexible covers, in decoration paper and type, a daintily rich little volume.
"Ah! I know this," he said. "I read it when it first came out."
"So much the better. You can give me your opinion without the trouble of reading."
"It received a good deal of praise, I remember," he said, turning over the leaves.
She was silent.
"There was a charming little description somewhere—about going out on the Campagna to gather the wild narcissus," he went on, after a pause.
And then there was another silence.
"But—" said Mrs. Winthrop.
"But, as you kindly suggest, I am no judge of poetry. I can say nothing of value."
"Say it, valuable or not. Do you know, Mr. Ford, that you have scarcely spoken one really truthful word to me since we first met. Yet I feel sure that it does not come natural to you, and that it has cost you some trouble to—to—"