"Oh _no_. Of course not. _I_ couldn't. When a woman reaches a certain age, my dear, a certain style is necessary. I don't mean great expense, but simple little things that would suit you, darling, wouldn't do for me. Now that little pink thing that you're wearing--I should look _nothing_ in it, and yet I dare say Henry's sister.... Where did you get it, dear?" "Well, it _came_ from Paquin's," said Daphne. "It's not new." "Oh! Well, we mustn't be always talking of chiffons together, that's very frivolous. You're fond of poetry, aren't you?" "Not so very," said Daphne truthfully. "But you would like to hear mine; I know you would, dear," said Mrs. Foster, nodding, and patting her hand. "Dear girl, you shall. I've got a tiny little volume, all in manuscript. It's quite a secret, darling. Hardly any one--now--knows that I was poetical. But I can tell you anything--you're so sympathetic. I had at one time a great wish to be a sort of--not exactly Elizabeth Barrett Browning, or Christina Rossetti--you know who I mean, don't you?" "Oh yes." "But a singer of songs--songs of feeling. Well, let us go into the garden. I will show it to you later." They sprinkled a few dead flowers, picked a few weeds, and then Mrs. Foster became thoughtful, took off her gloves, and went to her room and remained there for some time. She came down with a manuscript book in her hand. It had a shiny cover, and in the right-hand corner a piece of the cover was cut out. On the paper, showing through, was written in Mrs. Foster's delicate handwriting, "Fireflies of Fancy." "This," she said, patting it, "is my little book, and after lunch I'll read you some of the poems, dear Daphne, though I'm not at all sure that all of them are quite suitable for you to hear." "Oh, Mrs. Foster!" Daphne found difficulty in believing it. "You see," continued the delicate-looking old lady, in her sweet, refined voice, "I was very much under the influence of the Passionate School--Swinburne, Rossetti, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and so on--at the time that I wrote. My husband never wished me to publish them. He didn't like them--he didn't understand them. I don't mind admitting to you, dear, that since I lost him I have sent one or two of the less--well--shall we say strongly coloured?--poems to the magazines at times, of course under a _nom de plume_. But they were all returned. I think they were considered too--well, too----However, I've given up the idea of making a name as a poetess now, and very rarely show them to anybody; _very_ rarely." Daphne answered, with absolute sincerity, that she was dying to see them. After lunch, when they retired to the little drawing-room, Mrs. Foster sat down with her back to the light, and a slight flush on her cheek, and took up the book.