The young man nodded.
With fingers that trembled a little, she unrolled the sheets of a fair, well-written copy of “Urban Love, a trilogy.”
She read the poem line by line, ninety-six in all, with the face of a sphinx.
“What do ye think o’ it, Miss Sanderrson?” There was a slight tremor in the voice of the author. The silence which had followed the reading of “Urban Love, a trilogy” had proved a little too much, even for that will of iron.
“It is very nice, if I may say so, very nice indeed,” said Miss Sanderson cautiously.
“I’ll be doin’ better than that, I’m thinkin’.” A certain rigidity came into the voice of the author of the poem. The word “nice,” was almost an affront; it had come upon his ear like a false quantity upon that of a classical scholar.
“Did you really do it all by yourself?” The inquiry was due less to the performance, which Harriet was quite unable to judge, than to the author’s almost terrible concentration of manner, which clearly implied that it would not do to take such an achievement for granted.
“Every worrd, Miss Sanderrson. Except——”
“Except what, Mr. Maclean?”
“Mr. Lonie, the Presbyterian Minister, helped me a bit wi’ the scansion.”