"Not immortalised, Lady Chantrey," he replied modestly, "not even described—only, if I may say so, appreciated."
From her invalid chair, in the shade, Lady Chantrey looked out over the lawn, sunny and fragrant, a sweet foreground to the wide hills beyond.
She turned to the poet with something like a sigh.
"I wonder why it is that we fortunate ones are so few," she said. "Why we few should be allowed to drown ourselves in all this beauty, that so many can only dream about. It would almost seem a waste of earth's good things."
The poet was silent.
"After all, they can dream—the others, I mean," he said, presently.
"But never attain."
"It is good that they know it is all here—somewhere."
Lady Chantrey lay back in her chair.