“You are not a real poet,” she said as gently as she could. “You lack the true celestial fire. Your poems all savor of those I read in the street-cars. Poets are born, and not made. The true poet is a noble soul, floating above the heads of common mortals, destined to live alone, and unmarried—”
Mr. Milward sat up suddenly and ceased laughing.
“And now,” continued Kate, “I must ask you both to excuse me, for I am very tired.” But what do you think! As I was bowing good-night, while her poet was struggling into his rubber overshoes, she whispered, so that only I could hear:—
“Come up to-morrow evening. I will be all alone!”
When, two days later, I told Perkins of my engagement, he only said:—
“Pays to advertise.”