He loved her all the
better for her wariness of emotion; it tallied with a like streak in his
own nature. And this, though at the moment he was going through a very
debauch of frankness. To the little black-eyed girl who pored over his
letters at "Beamish's Family Hotel," he unbosomed himself as never in
his life before. He enlarged on his tastes and preferences, his likes
and dislikes; he gave vent to his real feelings for the country of his
exile, and his longings for "home"; told how he had come to the colony,
in the first instance, with the fantastic notion of redeeming the
fortunes of his family; described his collections of butterflies and
plants to her, using their Latin names. And Polly drank in his words,
and humbly agreed with all he wrote, or at least did not disagree; and,
from this, as have done lovers from the beginning of time, he inferred a
perfect harmony of mind. On one point only did he press her for a reply.
Was she fond of books? If so, what evenings they would spend together,
he reading aloud from some entertaining volume, she at her fancy work.
And poetry? For himself he could truly say he did not care for
poetry . . . except on a Saturday night or a quiet Sunday morning; and
that was, because he liked it too well to approach it with any but a
tranquil mind.
I THINK IF I KNOW YOU ARIGHT, AS I BELIEVE I DO, MY POLLY, YOU TOO HAVE
POETRY IN YOUR SOUL.
He smiled at her reply; then kissed it.
I CANNOT WRITE POETRY MYSELF, said Polly, BUT I AM VERY FOND OF IT AND
SHALL INDEED LIKE VERY MUCH DEAR RICHARD TO LISTEN WHEN YOU READ.
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