“Of course that’s only the most superficial and modest account of the incident,” the Poet replied; “but I can’t blame you for not telling. If I knew how to do what you did, I should very likely keep the secret. Another case of the flower in the crannied wall,—
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is!”
“You give me far too much credit,” the girl responded gravely. “It was merely a matter of my knowing Marjorie better than any one else at the party; I hadn’t known she was coming or I should have brought her myself.”
“I thought you would say something like that,” the Poet observed, “and that is why I liked you before you said it.”
She looked at him with the frank curiosity aroused by her nearness to a celebrity. Now that the first little heartache over the mention of Marjorie had passed, she found herself quite at ease with him.
“My feelings have been hurt,” he was saying. “Oh, nobody has told me—at least not to-day—that I am growing old, or that it’s silly to carry an umbrella on bright days! It’s much worse than that.”
Sympathy spoke in her face and from the tranquil depths of her violet eyes.
“I shall hate whoever said it, forever and forever!” she averred.