re left together.

"He reads very well," Heron said at last. "A capital reader, I think.
Don't you? He throws his soul into it. That's the great thing."

"It is," said Minola, "if it's much to throw--oh, I don't know what I
mean by that. But how do you like the poems?"

"Well, I am sure they must be very fine. I should rather hear the
judgment of some one else. I should like to hear you speak first. You
tell me what you think of them and then I'll tell you, as the children
say."

"I don't care about them," said Minola, shaking her head sadly. "I have
tried, Mr. Heron; but I can't admire them. I can't see any originality,
or poetry, or anything in them. I could not admire them--unless a
command came express from the Queen to tell me to think them good."

"So you read the 'Misanthrope'--Moliere's 'Misanthrope?'" Victor said
eagerly, and having caught in a moment Minola's whimsical allusion to
the duty of a loyal critic when under royal command.

"Yes, I used to pass half my time reading it; I have almost grown into
thinking that I have a sort of copyright in it. Alceste is my chief
hero, Mr. Heron."

"I wish I were like him," said Mr. Heron.

"I wish you were," she answered gravely.

"But I am not--unfortunately."

"Unfortunately," she repeated, determined to pay no compliment.

"You must let me come some day and have a long talk with you about
Moliere," Victor said, nothing discouraged, having wanted no compliment,
nor thought of any.

"I shall be delighted; you shall talk and I will listen. I am so glad to
find a companion in Moliere. But I wish I could have admired Mr.
Blanchet's poems. I prefer my own ever so much."

"Your own!" The audacious self-complacency of the announcement
astonished him, and seemed out of keeping with Miss Grey's character and
ways. Do you write poems?"

"Oh, no; if I did, I don't think I could admire them."

"But how then--what do you mean?"

"Well--one can feel such poetry in every blink of sunshine even in this
West Centre, and every breath of wind, and every stray recollection of
some great book that one has read, when we were young, you know. That
poetry never is brought to the awful test of being written down and read
out. I do so feel for Mr. Blanchet; I suppose his poems seemed glorious
before they were written out."

"But I think they seem glorious to him even still."

"They do--and to Mary. Mr. Heron, tell me honestly and without
affectation--are you really a ju