"Bill didn't write that," he said, suddenly serious, "who did? You, Mavis?"
I nodded.
"Why, you little wretch," he cried out, delightedly. "Bill never told me a word—"
"He doesn't know," I said. "No-one knows. Please don't tell him. I had thought of some day showing what I had done to Uncle John Denton. But I've decided not to, now. I didn't mean anyone to know—"
Wright picked up the paper and read the verse again. I watched him, in a curious mental state. Part of me resented bitterly that even so good a friend should have dragged out to the revealing light of day, my wistful secret of song: and yet, another part of me, back in my brain, said dully, "It really doesn't matter—now."
"I'm a better critic than I am a poet," said Wright, after a time. "I think you have a gift, Mavis. This," he flicked the paper with a thumb and finger, "has grace and delicacy. It's not good, of course,—not according to—well, say, Bill's standards,—but it has promise. I won't tell Bill, if you'd rather not, although I think he would help you a great deal—and I'm sure he'd go quite out of his head with excitement. May I see, sometime, anything else you have? Only, for the love of Mike, what's the idea of being so morbid? Haven't you happier things to write about, child?"
I put my hand over his,
"Sure you won't tell?" I begged.
"I swear, by all the Muses," he replied, "Bill shall never know, from me."
"Know what?" asked Bill, appearing disconcertingly around the tree.