"Why,"—he moved a little uneasily—"I really—don't know—" He threw back his head with a little smile. "To be frank, Miss Polly, I haven't read them."
Something flashed into the young face opposite that startled the man.
"Do you mean, Mr. Parcell," Polly said slowly, "that you have not read the book at all?" Her emphasis made her thought clear, and his cheeks reddened.
"I shall have to own up to my neglect," he replied. "You know I am a very busy man, Miss Polly."
"You needn't bother with the 'Miss,'" she answered; "nobody does. Then, that is why you haven't said 'thank you'—you don't feel 'thank you'!"
"Oh, my dear Polly! I am very grateful to Miss Twining, I assure you, and I realize that I should have sent her a note of thanks; but—in fact, I don't recollect just how it was—I presume I was waiting until I had read the book, and—I may as well confess it!—I was somewhat afraid to read it."
"Afraid?" Polly looked puzzled.
"Such things are apt to be dreary reading," he smiled. "I am rather a crank as regards poetry."
The flash came again into Polly's face. "Oh!" she cried, fine scorn in her voice, "you thought the poems weren't good!"
He found himself nodding mechanically.