"Oh yes; it is—and it saves neckties."
And this, mark you, was the way to Poetry! Poor Letitia, with the manuscript hidden beneath her cloak, was all astray. The image of the poet with Horace in his lap rose before her and rebuked her. She was tempted to disclose her mission, dutifully, there and then.
"How is Mrs. Butters?" she inquired instead.
"About as well as common, which is to say, poorly—very poorly, thank you."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
Editor Butters seemed downcast.
"She's tried everything," he said. "Even had a pocket made in her gown to hold a potato and a horse-chestnut—but this rheumatism does beat all, I tell you. How's the old gentleman?"
"The doctor says he will never walk."
"Yes, so I heard," muttered the editor. "It's a damned shame."
He was fumbling with his proofs and did not see her face—yet, after all, she could feel the sympathy even in his rudeness.