"S-Shakspere," he ventured desperately.
"He's mine, too." Mr. Pottle breathed easier.
"But," she added, "I think Longfellow is sweet, don't you?"
"Very sweet," agreed Mr. Pottle.
She smiled at him with a sad, shy confidence.
"He did not understand," she said.
She nodded her blonde head toward an enlarged picture of the late Mr. Gallup, in the full regalia of Past Grand Master of the Beneficent Order of Beavers.
"Didn't he care for—er—literature?" asked Mr. Pottle.
"He despised it," she replied. "He was wrapped up in the hay-and-feed business. He began to talk about oats and chicken gravel on our honeymoon."
Mr. Pottle made a sympathetic noise.