"Of course not! My dear girl, you didn’t think I was Polly’s husband, did you?"
"Yes, I did," she faltered.
"I’m her brother-in-law. She’s my brother’s wife."
"Oh! She’s a widow, then?"
"No, no, no! He’s alive. He’s here, in this house; but he’s a poet, you know, and when he’s working he shuts himself up for days at a time. He’s a queer chap—a regular genius."
"That’s pretty hard on his wife, I should say."
"That’s what the wife of a fellow like Vincent must expect. He is a bit trying, but you have to make allowances. He’s very remarkable—writes beautiful stuff."
"I don’t like po’try," said Angelica, who had already taken a dislike to this brother.
"I’m not very fond of it, either, but I admire it."
"I don’t," she persisted.