Hermione glanced down at the birds lying upon the sand. "Since I have so wickedly and unfemininely slain them," said she, "I might as well take them along." "Yes," Applebo assented; "besides, they are evidence against you." Hermione tossed her head. "That makes no difference. I shall not deny having shot them. If I am a flirt and a poacher and a cruel and ruthless slayer, I am at least honest!" "When caught," amended Applebo. He gathered up the plover, tossed them into the sack, and slung it on his shoulder, then took Hermione's gun from her slightly resisting hands. "I can carry it..." she said. "Let me," answered the poet. "It offends my sense of fitness to see you with a weapon in your hands. You do not need it; your eyes are quite enough." "You have a singular gift for involved compliments," said Hermione. "These are only truths, and the truth is always involved when told to a woman. That is the reason why so few of us tell it." "Do you tell it?" "In part. I find that more deceptive than lying." He turned, as though to walk back toward the beach. Hermione, newly-vexed that he should be the one to bring the interview to a close, took a pace which carried her past and ahead of him. The poet made no effort to catch her up. He strolled on, with the nonchalance of one taking a solitary ramble. Occasionally he paused to admire the early morning colours over the sea and marsh. Several paces ahead of him Hermione paused and looked back over her shoulder. The poet was regarding her contemplatively. His eyes met hers and he smiled. "You _are_ spoiled, aren't you?" said he. "In what way?" Hermione demanded, hotly. "In every way, it seems to me." Applebo regarded her thoughtfully. "Let's hurry. I want to write a poem about ... about ... lovely, conscious things that..." "Come on, then..." Hermione interrupted. "You make me tired. Let's hurry back and you can write your silly poem and go into ecstasies over your æsthetic sensibilities ... just as my father does over his cooking, and, Heaven knows, a worse cook never spoiled a broth!" "What!" cried Applebo. "But that's not fair! Have you ever seen any of my verses?" "No," replied Hermione, greatly exulting in the lie. "Then you are not fair ... naturally. But then, if you were, you would not be truly feminine. Never try to be. It is the secret of mondaine failure ... to be fair. As you have probably felt, instinctively ... being too young to have found it out in any other way. I will write a poem about you. I will call it 'The Petulant Poppy'..." "Help...!" gasped Hermione. "Don't you like the title?" "But why 'Poppy'?" "You look like a poppy ... with your black head and red kerchief. There are other reasons ... certain things connected with poppies. They are full of dope. How is it that you are permitted to knock around at this hour without a duenna?"