“Oh, no, I was going to tell you about Scott’s wife.”
“I did not know he had a wife.”
“Oh, he hasn’t any now, but Irene Mapleton is to be his wife some day. I do not know just when, but you should see the poetry she writes. Why, she has just stacks of it. Mama thinks it is just beautiful, but Scott says he cannot see any beauty in it. I believe you could write as well as that yourself. Mama used to write poetry, and she wrote a whole lot of it, and tried to sell it for an awful price. The editor told her that he could not take it. She kept offering it for less and less, and finally, she offered it for nothing. He would not take it at all, and then told her it was worthless and would never do to print. Since then I do not believe she has ever tried to get her poems printed.”
“I should not think she would,” said Paul.
“Well,” said June, looking up and tossing her head, “I do not believe I should like to be a writer. I want to be free and not sit caged up like a bird. Why, mama knows a lady in New York who makes her living that way, and I have often seen her sitting by her window away up in the third story of her house, and there she sits, day after day, all alone. Mercy! I can’t see how she does stand it. It must be an awful life to live.
“I suppose one reason that mama is so determined to have Scott marry Irene is because she can write poetry. Mama is so delighted when she sees one of Irene’s poems that she shows it to everybody she knows. She is so afraid that Scott will not get Irene for a wife that she wants him to be married right away, but Scott says he has not the time to be married.”
“How old are you, June?” Paul asked, looking up into her face.
“Thirteen last month.”