"True, true," agreed Bones graciously. "And I rather fancy that they are a little bit on the most beautiful side, my jolly old graven image. All heart outpourings you understand--but no, you wouldn't understand, my old crochety one. One of these days, as I've remarked before, they will be read by competent judges ... midnight oil, dear old thing--at least, I have electric light in my flat. They're generally done after dinner." "After a heavy dinner, I should imagine," said Hamilton with asperity. "What are you going to do about it, Bones?" Bones scratched his nose. "I'm blessed if I know," he said. "Shall I tell you what you must do?" asked Hamilton quietly. "Certainly, Ham, my wise old counsellor," said the cheerful Bones. "Certainly, by all means, Why not?" "You must go to Miss Whitland and tell her all about it." Bones's face fell. "Good Heavens, no!" he gasped. "Don't be indelicate, Ham! Why, she might never forgive me, dear old thing! Suppose she walked out of the office in a huff? Great Scotland! Great Jehoshaphat! It's too terrible to contemplate!" "You must tell her," said Hamilton firmly. "It's only fair to the girl to know exactly what is hanging over her." Bones pleaded, and offered a hundred rapid solutions, none of which were acceptable to the relentless Hamilton. "I'll tell her myself, if you like," he said. "I could explain that they're just the sort of things that a silly ass of a man does, and that they were not intended to be offensive--even that one about her lips being like two red strips. Strips of what--carpet?" "Don't analyse it, Ham, lad, don't analyse it!" begged Bones. "Poems are like pictures, old friend. You want to stand at a distance to see them." "Personally I suffer from astigmatism," said Hamilton, and read the poems again. He stopped once or twice to ask such pointed questions as how many "y's" were in "skies," and Bones stood on alternate feet, protesting incoherently. "They're not bad, old boy?" he asked anxiously at last. "You wouldn't say they were bad?" "Bad," said Hamilton in truth, "is not the word I should apply." Bones cheered up. "That's what I think, dear ex-officer," he smirked. "Of course, a fellow is naturally shy about maiden efforts, and all that sort of thing, but, hang it all, I've seen worse than that last poem, old thing." "So have I," admitted Hamilton, mechanically turning back to the first poem. "After all"--Bones was rapidly becoming philosophical--"I'm not so sure that it isn't the best thing that could happen. Let 'em print 'em! Hey? What do you say? Put that one about young Miss Marguerite being like a pearl discovered in a dustbin, dear Ham, put it before a competent judge, and what would he say?" "Ten years," snarled Hamilton, "and you'd get off lightly!" Bones smiled with admirable toleration, and there the matter ended for the moment.