"Oh no—a man's ideals change so much, you know," answered John, who felt he had been foolishly betrayed into telling his story, and hated to be laughed at.
"I am very glad of that. How long are you going to stay here, Mr. Short?"
"Until New Year's Day, I think," he answered. "Perhaps you will have time to forget about the poetry before I go."
"I don't know why," said Mrs. Goddard, noticing his hurt tone. "I think it was very pretty—I mean the way you did it. You must be a born poet—to write verses to a person you did not know and had only seen once!"
"It is much easier than writing verses to moral abstractions one has never seen at all," explained John, who was easily pacified. "When a man writes a great deal he feels the necessity of attaching all those beautiful moral qualities to some real, living person whom he can see—"
"Even if he only sees her once," remarked Mrs. Goddard demurely.
"Yes, even if he only sees her once. You have no idea how hard it is to concentrate one's faculties upon a mere idea; but the moment a man sees a woman whom he can endow with all sorts of beautiful qualities—why it's just as easy as hunting."
"I am glad to have been of so much service to you, even unconsciously—but, don't you think perhaps Mrs. Ambrose would have done as well?"
"Mrs. Ambrose?" repeated John. Then he broke into a hearty laugh. "No—I have no hesitation in saying that she would not have done as well. I am deeply indebted to Mrs. Ambrose for a thousand kindnesses, for a great deal more than I can tell—but, on the whole, I say, no; I could not have written odes to Mrs. Ambrose."
"No, I suppose not. Besides, fancy the vicar's state of mind! She would have had to call him in to translate your poetry."