“Let me read it,” said a voice behind them; and Helwyze stood upon the threshold, wearing his most benignant aspect.
“You?” ejaculated Canaris; while Gladys shrunk a little, as if the proposition did not please her.
“Why not? Young poets never read their own verses well; yet what could be more soothing to the most timorous or vain than to hear them read by an admiring and sympathetic friend? Come, let me have my reward, as well as Gladys;” and Helwyze laid his hand upon the unscattered pile of manuscript.
“A penance, rather. It is so blurred, so rough, you could not read it; then the fatigue,”—began Canaris, pleased, yet reluctant still.
“I can read any thing, make rough places smooth, and not tire, for I have a great interest in this story. He has shown me some of it, and it is good.”
Helwyze spoke to Gladys, and his last words conquered her reluctance, whetted her curiosity; he looked at Canaris, and his glance inspired hope, his offer tempted, for his voice could make music of any thing, his praise would be both valuable and cheering.
“Let him, Felix, since he is so kind, I so impatient that I do not want to wait;” and Gladys went to gather up the leaves, which had flown wildly about the room.
“Leave those, I will sort them while you begin. The first part is all here. I am sick of it, and so will you be, before you are through. Go, love, or I may revoke permission, and make the bonfire yet.”
Canaris laughed as he waved her away; and Gladys, seeing that the cloud had lifted, willingly obeyed, lingering only to give a touch to the dainty luncheon, which was none the worse for being cold.
“Dear, eat and drink, then my feast will be the sweeter.”