His quiet voice as he read the names on the backs of Aunt Dinah’s miscellaneous collection, sounded changed and older, ever so much, in Violet’s ear. All on a sudden for both, a part of their lives had been cut off, and a very pleasant time changed irrevocably to a retrospect.
“I think ‘Tennyson.’ What do you?” he asked, turning a smile that seemed faded now, but kindly as ever, upon her.
As the old name was gone, and the new intolerable, he compounded by calling her by none; and she, likewise, in her answer.
“Oh! yes, Tennyson, Tennyson, by all means; that is, if Miss Perfect wishes.”
“Yes—oh! to be sure; but haven’t you read it before?” acquiesced Miss Perfect.
William smiled at Violet, and said to Miss Dinah, “I think—and don’t you?”—this was to Vi, parenthetically, “that poetry is never heard fairly on a first reading. It resembles music—you must know it a little to enjoy it.”
“That’s just what I think,” said Violet, eagerly.
“Very good, young people,” said my aunt, with a little toss of her head. “For my part, I think there’s but one Book will bear repeated reading, and that is the Bible.”
“Not even ‘Elihu Bung?’” suggested William.
“There—read your poetry,” said Miss Perfect. “I shan’t interrupt; I’m reading these, looking back for the date of a family event.”