"Ah!—indeed!—I did not know you were a poet, Mr.—"
She had forgotten his name.
"That or nothing," answered Tom, boldly.
"And a musician, too?"
"At your service, Mrs. Redmain."
"I don't happen to want a poet at present—or a musician either," she said, with just enough of a smile to turn the rudeness into what Tom accepted as a flattering familiarity.
"Nor am I in want of a place," he replied, with spirit; "a bird can sing on any branch. Will you allow me to sing this song on yours? Mrs. Downport scarcely gave the expression I could have desired.—May I read the voices before I sing them?"
Without either intimacy or encouragement, Tom was capable of offering to read his own verses! Such fools self-partisanship makes of us.
Mrs. Redmain was, for her, not a little amused with the young man; he was not just like every other that came to the house.
"I should li-i-ike," she said.