He plumped down on the grass as he spoke, took out a large bandana handkerchief and mopped his brow with an air of resignation, while Ronald fumbled awkwardly in his pocket.
“I have several pencil copies. I think you can make them out. This is the latest. A Madrigal—‘To my Lady.’”
“Love-song?”
“Yes.”
“Ever been in love?”
“No.”
“What a pity when charming—poets—sing of things they don’t understand! Well, well, hand it over! I’ll bear it as bravely as I may—”
Ron winced, and bit his lower lip. It was agony to sit by and watch the cool, supercilious expression on the critic’s face, the indifferent flick of the fingers with which the sheet was closed and returned.
“Anything more?”
“You don’t care for that one?”