"It—I—I don't know any one word to describe it, unless it is turn-out-well-a-bil-i-ty."
Fair started with astonishment, and the tears leaped again to her eyes as she laughed, and with new distress said: "It isn't—it—O Mr. Fair, don't you know what I mean? It doesn't make good poetry! As you would say, it's not good art. You may think me 'fresh,' as the girls say, and fantastical, but I can't help believing that in a matter like this there's something wrong—some essential wanting—in whatever's not good—good——"
"Romance?" asked Fair; "do you think the fact that a thing is good romance——"
"No! O no, no, no! I don't say being good romance is enough to commend it; but I do think not being good romance is enough to condemn it! Is that so very foolish?"
The lover answered wistfully. "No. No." Then very softly: "Barbara "—he waited till she looked up—"if this thing should ever seem to you to have become good poetry, might not your answer be different?"
Barbara hesitated. "I—you—O—I only know how it seems now!"
"Never mind," said Fair, very gently. They rose and he took her hand, speaking again in the same tone. "You really believe I have the right to wait for a later answer?"
Her head drooped. "The right?" she murmured, "yes—the right——"
"So also do I. I shall wait. Good-by."
She raised her glance, her voice failed to a whisper. "Good-by."