“It would hardly be polite for me to criticize him now that he has introduced us. I fear we shall have to make the best of it!”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of it in that way!”
They regarded each other with searching inquiry and then laughed. Her possession of the verses had already advertised itself to him; she saw his eyes rest upon them carelessly for an instant and then he disregarded them; and this pleased her. If he were their author—if, possibly, he had written them of her—she approved of his good breeding in ignoring them.
“I know this part of the world better than almost any other,” he went on, clasping his hands over his knees. “I was born only ten miles from here on a farm; and I fished here a lot when I was a boy.”
“But, of course, you’ve escaped from the farm into the larger world or the Poet wouldn’t know you.”
“Well, you see, I’m a newspaper reporter down at the capital and reporters know everybody.”
“Oh, the Poet doesn’t know everybody; though everybody knows him. Perhaps we’d better pass that. Tell me some more about your early adventures on the lake.”
“You have heard all that’s worth telling. We farm boys used to come over and fish before the city men filched all the bass and left only sunfish and suckers. Then I grew up and went to the State Agricultural School—to fit me for a literary career!—and I didn’t get here again until last fall when my paper gave me a vacation and I spent a fortnight at the farm and used to ride over here on my bicycle every morning to watch the summer resorters and read books.”
“It’s strange I never saw you,” said Marian, “for I was here last fall. My own memories of the pioneers go back almost to the Indians. My father used to own that red-roofed cottage you see across the lake; and I’ve tumbled into the water from every point in sight.”
“September and June are the best months here, I think. It was all much nicer, though, before the place became so popular.”