"Well, then—what?"
"You know why I'm laughing."
"You think it's funny?" And there was an unmistakable note of indignation in the question.
"Of course I think it's funny! Don't you?"
There was no reply, and Peter looked up from the note-book. "Don't you think it's funny?" he repeated. And then he stared at her. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, her eyes were glittering with angry tears. "Why, I thought—" he began.
But she interrupted him: "I certainly don't think it's funny. I think it's a lovely poem! I think they're all lovely poems! I expected you to appreciate them, but as you don't—" And she put out a peremptory hand for the book. But as Peter continued to stare at her, she perceived his amusement, and her resentment gave way to mirth.
"Oh, Peter, do forgive me for being cross to you, but you see——"
"I see that you're proud of these poems!" he exclaimed, his own eyes twinkling merrily.
"Yes," she admitted, "I am proud of them. I really do think they're the loveliest poems ever written!" And she met his laughing gaze quite shamelessly.
"And you're glad—yes, glad—that she's turned out a poet!" he accused.