Are mortals born for rapture such as this?
Helas! the web was cunning-wove, I wis,
That e’en entangled me!”
“Theodora, are you sure that Eileen wrote these verses?”
“Eileen? Goodness, no! She scrawls all over the paper. You never saw her write a neat little hand like that.”
“Then who did write it?”
“Why ... Lary, of course. I thought you knew he was the poet—the real poet of the family. He wrote it last night. I saw his light burning at four o’clock this morning. I couldn’t sleep, either. Mine was ear-ache. His was another kind. He says you always have to agonize when you write anything worth while. And I think this poem is ... worth while ... don’t you?”
The solid ground of assurance was, somehow, slipping from beneath her feet. Lady Judith was not pleased. Her usually pale cheeks burned red, and there was an unfamiliar look in her eyes.
“Eileen told you to bring this to me?”
“Humph! You don’t think I’d show her Lary’s poem? He lets me see lots of things he writes, that mamma and the rest of them don’t know anything about—till they’re published. And if the stupid editors send them back—I never do tell. I wouldn’t ... for the world.”