He coloured a little as he spoke.
“But since then?”
“Oh, yes——”
“Show me some——”
“Not for the world.”
“Why not?”
“Poetry is such an awful give away. How any one ever dares to publish any, I don’t know. I suppose they get hardened. But one’s most private letters aren’t a patch on it. One puts down all one’s grumbles, one’s moonstruck fancies, the ravings of one’s inanest moments. Mine are not for circulation, thanks.”
Elizabeth did not laugh. Instead she said, quite seriously,
“David, I wish you would show me some of it.”
He looked rather surprised, but got up, and presently came back with some papers in his hand, and threw them into her lap.