“Really?” said Terry politely.
“Yes; I say that poetry is my chief métier. I have a poem this month in Zaneslie’s.”
“I must read it,” murmured Terry.
“You should hear me recite to really appreciate; don’t you think that one is always the best interpreter of one’s own work?”
Terry nodded understandingly, and then in a voice that amused Ruth even while she thought it rather cruel of him to laugh at the serious Miss Gilchrist:
“Do you write rhymed poetry or do you prefer free verse?” he asked.
Miss Gilchrist deserted her grape fruit and gave him her undivided attention.
“You know, Mr. Riordan, for years I have written rhymed poetry, but recently, quite recently, I have felt a definite urge toward the free medium. I have not relinquished the rhyme, but I am expressing myself in both forms. The free medium—”
Her voice went on, and on, but Ruth could not hear her now because Gloria’s voice, clear and high like the sleigh bells, rose above everything else for the moment.
“No; I can’t work in Terry’s play; I’ve decided never to go back to the stage. I want to travel—South America, perhaps.”