"Their name is legion! But why should I care? Do you join their ranks?... Well, Shelley almost died because of being misunderstood! I had hoped that you would assist me in—yes, in the publication of my book of poems, Mrs. Varick. I do not mean that I wrote to you, for this reason, the poem which you have just refused to hear me read. Far from it! I only mean that I have cherished the idea of securing in you a patron. Yes, a patron! I am without means to bring forth 'Moonbeams and Mountain-Peaks.' And I had hoped that after hearing me read what I have already told you is my most nobly able creation, you would ... consent, as a lover of art, of genius, of...."
"I understand," said Pauline. "You wish me to assist you in the publication of your volume." She was smiling, though a trifle wearily. "Well, Mr. Prawle, I will do it."
"You will do it!"
"Yes. You shall have whatever cheque you write me for...." She approached Prawle and laid her hand upon his arm. "But you must promise me to destroy 'Her Vindication'—not even to think of publishing it. Do you?"
"Yes ... if you insist."
"I do insist.... Well, as I said, write to me for the amount required."
Prawle momentarily smiled, as if from extreme gratitude. And then the smile abruptly faded from his pale face. "I will promise!" he declared. "But ... oh, it is so horrible to think that you help me from no real appreciation of my great gifts—that you do so only from charity!"
"Charity is not by any means a despicable virtue."
"From a great millionaire to a poor poet—yes! The poet has a sensitive soul! He wants to be loved for his verses, for his inspiration, if he is a true poet like myself!"
"And you believe yourself a true poet, Mr. Prawle?"