The Time of Roses

by L. T. Meade

"What do you mean?" said Florence.

"Why, this," said Edith Franks. She took up the manuscript again.

"What about it? I mean, do you—do you—like it?"

"Like it? It is not that exactly. I admire it, of course. Have you written much? Have you ever published anything?"

"Never a line."

"But you must have written a great deal to have achieved that style."

"No, I have written very little."

"Then you are a heaven-born genius: give me your hand."

Florence slowly and unwilling extended her hand. Miss Franks grasped it in both of hers.

"Flexible fingers," she said, "but not exactly, not precisely the hand of an artist, and yet, and yet you are an artist through and through. My dear, you are a genius."