Gladys watched him in reverential silence till he became conscious of her presence again, and gave her leave to speak, with a smile which had in it something of the condescension of an idol towards its devoutest worshipper.
“Were you making poetry, then?” she asked, with the frank curiosity of a child.
“No, I was wondering where I should be now if I had never made any;” and he looked at the summer paradise around him with an involuntary shiver, as if a chill wind had blown upon him.
“Think rather what you will write next. It is so lovely I want more, although I do not understand all this,” touching the book upon her knee with a regretful sigh.
“Neither do I; much of it is poor stuff, Gladys. Do not puzzle your sweet wits over it.”
“That is because you are so modest. People say true genius is always humble.”
“Then, I am not a true genius; for I am as proud as Lucifer.”
“You may well be proud of such work as this;” and she carefully brushed a fallen petal from the silken cover.
“But I am _not_ proud of that. At times I almost hate it!” exclaimed the capricious poet, impetuously, then checked himself, and added more composedly, “I mean to do so much better, that this first attempt shall be forgotten.”
“I think you will never do better; for this came from your heart, without a thought of what the world would say. Hereafter all you write may be more perfect in form but less true in spirit, because you will have the fear of the world, and loss of fame before your eyes.”
“How can you know that?” he asked, wondering that this young girl, so lately met, should read him so well, and touch a secret doubt that kept him idle after the first essay, which had been a most flattering success.
“Nay, I do not know, I only feel as if it must be so. I always sing best when alone, and the thought of doing it for praise or money spoils the music to my ear.”
“I feel as if it would be possible to do _any thing_ here, and forget that there is a world outside.”
“Then it is not dull to you? I am glad, for I thought it would be, because so many people want you, and you might choose many gayer places in which to spend your summer holiday.”
“I have no choice in this; yet I was willing enough to come. The first time is always pleasant, and I am tired of the gayer places,” he said, with a _blasé_ air that ill concealed how sweet the taste of praise had been to one who hungered for it.