These are the things I strive to capture in vain,
And I have forgotten your eyes——"
Another blinding mist of tears blotted out the last line, even as just now in the drawing-room tears had blotted out the figure of Little Yeogh Wough's friend sitting at the piano.
That night, after midnight, as I sat on the big sofa with the Boy and his friend, I said suddenly:
"I didn't know you wrote poems, Roland. Why don't you let me see some of them?"
"They're not good enough to show you. I suppose Edward has been telling you I've written them. He oughtn't to have told you."
They were sitting one on either side of me. Edward laughed.
"Don't mind what he says. I'll send them to you to read," he said to me.
Then a demon of anger leapt up in the eyes of Little Yeogh Wough. He looked dangerous as he flung himself across me and defied his friend.
"No, you won't send them. I don't mean mother to see them. They're not good enough. They're not to be shown her. You understand?"