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"Of course I understand," she said readily "A poet's field is

universal, and I quite understand that if he writes nice things about

his friends he doesn't mean it"

"Oh, but doesn't he?" said Bones truculently "Oh, doesn't he, indeed?

That just shohat a fat lot you know about it, jolly old Miss

Marguerite When I write a poeirls," said she a little coldly

"About a girl," said Bones, this time so pointedly that his confusion

was transferred i," she said bravely

"My dear young miss"--Bones rose, and his voice trembled as he laid his

hand on the typewriter where hers had been a second before--" with the letters "a" and "e" as though he

had originally put out his hand to touch the keyboard, and was in no

way surprised and distressed that the little hand which had covered

them had been so hastily withdrawn, "I can only tell you----"

"There is your telephone bell," she said hurriedly "Shall I answer

it?" And before Bones could reply she had disappeared

He went back to his flat that night with his mind made up He would

show her those beautiful verses He had come to this conclusion many

ti

reckless now She should see them--priceless verses, written in a old upon the