"I am a blithering ass, idiot, fool, dolt, imbecile, chump, ninny lump, and I ought to put my head in a bag and jump overboard. A hydrocephalic child cutting out paper-dolls on the floor of an asylum is a font of intelligence compared to me." "You are letting yourself off easily," observed Hermione. "I shall die of this. And so your sister must have been receiving the verses intended for you!" "Every mail adds to her vocabulary of soul-talk," replied Hermione. Applebo looked very ill. All of the feline drowsiness had been swept from his face, leaving it of an actually human intelligence. "I shall never write another poem!" said he, with solemnity. "When you talk like that," said Hermione, "you make me believe that there is still hope for you. But there is still more that you must do. That is why I am here." "What must I do?" asked Applebo, hopefully. "I promise to do it." "Stop following us about." The face of the poet fell. For a moment he regarded Hermione in gloomy silence. "As bad as that?" he asked. "Very well. I have promised. I will start for New York as soon as the weather clears, lay up the _Daffodil_, and go into outlawry. Perhaps later, when I have done my penance, you may graciously permit me to meet your charming family in the conventional way." He looked at her eagerly. Hermione dropped her eyes. "I will consider it," she answered. "Are you offended with me?" asked Applebo. "Not offended exactly," said Hermione, looking at him frankly. "But you have made an awful lot of trouble. Poor Cécile thinks that you are madly in love with her. Of course, she does not return the sentiment, but it has worked on her romantic sensibilities apparently to the point of inspiring the stuff that you just read. When she finds out that your delicate attentions were intended all of the time for my humble self, I'm sure I don't know what will happen." Applebo stared at her wildly. "Good Heavens!" he gasped. "Then she must never know! Oh, what an awful mess!" Hermione, watching him with more intentness than her supercilious expression betrayed, saw an entirely new and unknown Applebo. All of the indolent pose was swept away in the rush of sincere and honest regret for what had occurred. The poet, thus revealed in his true nature, became a very normal and penitent young man. Hermione was conscious of a sudden rush of liking for him, he was so sincerely sorry. "What shall I do?" he asked. "Simply clear out? That's the hardest of all. Perhaps if I were to go over and meet your sister and let her see what an ordinary, every-day sort of ass I am, it might do some good. I'll do whatever you tell me to." Hermione gave him a pitying smile. "You need not feel so tragic about it," said she. "Cécile does not really care, of course..." She watched him narrowly. Applebo's face expressed relief.