"Well--Miss Carver, from Boston, for one; pretty, accomplished--"
"What a sentiment for a poet! Do you know, Mr. Gildersleeve; that I never fail to read your verses in the _Sentinel_?"
"Do you, really? You are a true friend, indeed, Miss Heath, to sacrifice yourself to that extent. What an exertion it must be!"
"Indeed, I think some of them very nice. Mr. Abbott, who prides himself on his literary taste, endeavored to be very witty criticising some of your poetry, but Aunt Susan--that's Mrs. Applegate--Mercedita, and I defended you with our utmost ability, and we three decided that it was very nice indeed," said Edna earnestly.
Mark thought that "very nice indeed" was not exactly the verdict he craved, nor were Aunt Susan and Mercedita critics whose judgment would likely bias public opinion, and be considered final. Edna's good opinion was certainly worth having, however; and as for the Rev. Mr. Abbott's attempts at facetiousness, they were undoubtedly prompted by jealousy, and to say the least of it, were very unbecoming in one of his profession, and a disgrace to the cloth.
"Mr. Abbott, though, is a very fine reader," continued Edna, "but I must say I have not a very great opinion of his taste. Would you believe it, he is forever reciting 'Airy, fairy Lillian,' and says it's the finest thing Tennyson ever wrote? Now I think it's very flat, don't you?"
Mark agreed with her, and said it was very flat, very flat indeed. She certainly has taste, thought he, great critical acumen, but I wish she wouldn't call my verses nice.
"You must know," said Edna, who talked on unreservedly, "I'm a very romantic girl in spite of my matter-of-fact way, and read every bit of poetry I come across. In saying that I don't mean to disparage your productions, for as I said, I think some of them real nice and pretty. It may be that my opinion is not worth much, but one piece I read lately struck me as being full of beautiful ideas and similes. I mean those lines addressed to 'Eunomia,' the 'violet-engarlanded' person in 'purple cincture,' who, 'enthroned in the propylon of the temple of Fate, sweeps the lyre with skilful plectrum.' I believe that's the image, is it not?"
"I am afraid you are disposed to amuse yourself by ridiculing my poor efforts," said Mark, puzzled to know whether she were in earnest or not.