“Why, ‘Laureate,’ have you been writing more soap-poetry?”
“No, Bonny; but I had a row with the boss, and he talked to me so rudely that I made up my mind no gentleman would stand it. So I bolted. That’s all. I was going to leave, anyway, after the holidays.”
“Oh, you were, eh? Going into soap-poetry for a business? If it pays as well as your first venture—”
“Be still.”
“Yes, my dear. But I’ll just make a note of your new words. You will have quite a vocabulary if you keep on. ‘Row,’ ‘boss,’ ‘bolted,’ will rhyme admirably with ‘cow,’ ‘toss,’ ‘moulted.’ I shall take to writing for soap-prizes myself soon. I’ve always had a notion that my genius would develop in a direction not at present suspected by my family. Mother thinks I am an embryo prima-donna; Belle knows I am a fine dressmaker; Bob is sure I was born for no other purpose than to make boys’ kites, and Roland must acknowledge he never would have won the soap-poem prize if I hadn’t furnished at least one missing rhyme. But—”
“Bonny, do keep still! If I were as fond of talking as you, I’d—”
“Talk! Hark! There goes the door-bell. I hope nobody has come to call, for—” The chatterbox did not wait to express her inhospitable reasons, but darted down the narrow passage to answer the summons, and was back almost directly, bearing in her arms the basket of chrysanthemums which Mr. Brook’s messenger had just brought.
“Beatrice!”
“For mercy’s sake!”
“What in the world!”