'I have brought you,' she said, 'another little poem. I think it is the kind of thing you like—in the vers de société style. She unrolled her leather case and took out a very neatly written paper.
He read it slowly. Then he nodded his head approvingly and read it aloud.
'How long does it take you to knock off this kind of thing, Effie?'
'It took me the whole of yesterday. This morning I corrected it and copied it out. Do you like it?'
'You are a clever little animal, Effie, and you shall make your fortune. Yes; it is very good, very good indeed: Austin Dobson himself is not better. It is very good: light, tripping, graceful—in good taste. It is very good indeed. Leave it with me, Effie. If I like it as well to-morrow as I do to-day, you may depend upon seeing it in the next number.'
'Oh!' she blushed a rosy red with the pleasure of being praised. Indeed, it is a pleasure which never palls. The old man who has been praised all his life is just as eager for more as the young poet who is only just beginning. 'Oh! you really think it is good?'
'I do indeed. The best proof is that I am going to buy it of you. It shall go into the editor's column—my own column—in the place of honour.'
'Yes,' she replied, but doubtfully—and she reddened again for a different reason. 'Oh, Mr. Feilding,' she said with an effort, 'I am so happy when I see my verses in print—in your paper—even without my name. It makes me so proud that I hardly dare to say what I want.'
'Say it, Effie. Get it off your mind. You will feel better afterwards.'
'Well, then, it cannot be anything to you—so great and high, with your beautiful stories and your splendid pictures. What is a poor little set of verses to you?'