"A lyrical drama for one thing. That sonnet was meant for a sort of motto to it."
A lyrical drama? She was right, then; he was Horace Jewdwine's great "find." If so, the subject was fenced around with difficulty. She must on no account give Horace away. Mr. Rickman had seemed annoyed because she had read his sonnet (which was printed); he would be still more annoyed if he knew that she had read his lyrical drama in manuscript. He was inclined to be reticent about his writings.
Lucia was wrong. Mr. Rickman had never been less inclined to reticence in his life. He wished she had read his drama instead of his sonnet. His spring-time was there; the swift unreturning spring-time of his youth. If she had read his drama she would have believed in his pursuit of the intangible perfection. As it was, she never would believe.
"I wonder," she said, feeling her ground carefully, "if my cousin Horace Jewdwine would be any good to you?"
"Mr. Jewdwine?"
"Do you know him?"
"Yes, slightly. That is—he knows—he knows what I can do. I mean what I've done."
"Really?" The chain of evidence was now complete. "Well, what does he say?"
Rickman laughed as he recalled his last conversation with the critic. "He says I'm one-seventh part a poet.
"Does he? Then you may be very sure you are a great deal more. My cousin is most terribly exacting. I should be glad if I succeeded in satisfying him; but I don't think I should be seriously unhappy if—if I failed. Did he say anything to discourage, to depress you?"