Mae had
ordinarily too good sense for this, too deep a reverence for that world
of poetry, at the threshold of which one should bow the knee, and loose
the shoe from his foot, and tread softly. She didn't care for this
to-day. She plunged boldly in, wrote her verse, copied it, sent it to
a Roman English paper, and heard from it again two days later, in the
following way.
The entire party were breakfasting together, when Albert suddenly looked
up from his paper and laughed. "Look here," he cried. "Here is another
of those dreadful imitators of the Pre-Raphaelite school. Hear this from
a so-called poem in the morning's journal:
'The gorgeous brown reds
Of the full-throated creatures of song.'"
"I don't see anything bad in that," said Eric, helping himself to
another muffin. "What is the matter with you?"
"Matter enough," returned Albert. "Because their masters, sometimes,
daub on colors with their full palettes and strong brushes, this feeble
herd tag after them and flounder around in color and passion in a way
that is sickening.
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