"But it's easy to see she's got hold
of some hay-footed fellow up there in the mountains with straws in his
hair, and is playing him for all he's worth. You won't get much more
poetry out of her, I reckon."
Is was not long after this conversation that one afternoon, when the
editor was alone, Mr. James Bowers entered the editorial room with much
of the hesitation and irresolution of his previous visit. As the editor
had not only forgotten him, but even, dissociated him with the poetess,
Mr. Bowers was fain to meet his unresponsive eye and manner with some
explanation.
"Ye disremember my comin' here, Mr. Editor, to ask you the name o' the
lady who called herself 'White Violet,' and how you allowed you couldn't
give it, but would write and ask for it?"
Mr. Editor, leaning back in his chair, now remembered the occurrence,
but was distressed to add that the situation remained unchanged, and
that he had received no such permission.
"Never mind THAT, my lad," said Mr. Bowers, gravely, waving his hand.
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