"'I wish to explain,' she said, gravely, looking at the point of her parasol. 'I am very sorry to be obliged to warn you—to ask you to forego the pleasure of strolling on a beach that does not belong to me. Perhaps,' she continued, in sudden alarm, 'perhaps this beach belongs to you?'
"'The beach? Oh no,' I said.
"'But—but you were going to write poems about it?'
"'Only one—and that does not necessitate owning the beach. I have observed,' said I, frankly, 'that the people who own nothing write many poems about it.'
"She looked at me seriously.
"'I write many poems,' I added.
"She laughed doubtfully.
"'Would you rather I went away?' I asked, politely. 'My family is respectable,' I added; and I told her my name.
"'Oh! Then you wrote Culled Cowslips and Faded Fig-Leaves and you imitate Maeterlinck, and you—Oh, I know lots of people that you know;' she cried, with every symptom of relief; 'and you know my brother.'
"'I am the author,' said I, coldly, 'of Culled Cowslips, but Faded Fig-Leaves was an earlier work, which I no longer recognize, and I should be grateful to you if you would be kind enough to deny that I ever imitated Maeterlinck. Possibly,' I added, 'he imitates me.'