“Of course not. Go on; this is very mysterious and interesting.”
“Well, I come here sometimes on pleasant days, to be alone—and write.”
“Write? Write poetry, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, how wonderful! Were you writing when I—when Goo interrupted you?”
“No; I had made two or three attempts, but nothing that I did satisfied me. I had just about decided to tear them up and to give up trying for this afternoon.”
“Oh, I hope you won't tear them up. I'm sure they shouldn't be. Perhaps you were not in a proper mood to judge, yourself.”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps they might look a little less hopeless to some one else. But that person would have to be really interested, and there are few people in South Harniss who know or care anything about poetry.”
“I suppose that is true. I—I don't suppose you would care to show them to me, would you?”
“Why,” eagerly, “would you really care to see them?”