“Alas!” exclaimed Robert, with a humorous shaking of the head, “then he is, I fear, engaged in adding to the burden which oppresses us. No wonder he hides his head; he is writing a book.”
“Perhaps he is a poet, Mrs. Clarendon,” puts in Rhoda.
“Perhaps so, Rhoda; and some day we may have pilgrims from all corners of the earth visiting the cottage he has glorified.”
“With special omnibuses from Winstoke station,” added Robert, “and a colony of licensed victuallers thriving about the sacred spot.”
“Let us be thankful,” exclaimed Isabel, “that a poet’s fame is usually deferred for a generation or two. Ha, there’s the first luncheon bell! It brings a smile to your face, Robert.”
“Did I betray myself? I confess I breakfasted early.”
The two girls walked towards the house together, their elders following more slowly.
“Isn’t Rhoda Meres a nice girl?” said Isabel, when the object of her remark was out of hearing.
“Very,” her cousin assented, though without enthusiasm. He seemed to be thinking of something else.
“The poor child has got a foolish idea into her head; she wants to go on to the stage.”