A smile broke over the handsome face of the poet. How pleasant it must be for a poet to hear his poems called nice.
"Well, never mind them; let us find 'Undine,'" said Mr. Randall.
"I'm sure I've sat up nights and nearly cried my eyes out over that beautiful poem 'Regina,' Did you ever see any one like the 'Regina' you described so delightfully?"
"Yes," said Mr. Randall, a sort of shadow coming over his face, "once, in my childhood, I saw such a one—a 'queen of noble nature's crowning;' one whose every motion seemed to say:
"'Incedo Regina'—
'I move a queen.'"
"Dear me," said Miss Felice, "how nice! I really should like to see her. I suppose she will be Mrs. Randall some day," and Miss Felice, looking up between her ringlets, did the artless to perfection.
Mr. Randall smiled again; it was evident he read Miss Felice like a book.
"Hardly, I am afraid. I don't approve of the Regina style of woman for wives myself. Something less imposing would suit me better—a nice little thing like——"
Miss Felice had cast down her long lashes, and stood looking as innocent and guileless as a stage angel; but here Mr. Randall most provokingly paused and began caressing a hideously ugly little Scotch terrier that had followed him into the room.
Georgia had to smile in spite of herself at the provoking nonchalance of the poet, more particularly as Miss Felice turned half pettishly away, and then, remembering that her role was to be sweet and simple, she gave him a smiling glance and returned to the charge.