eople who own nothing write
many poems about it.'

"She looked at me seriously.

"'I write many poems,' I added.

"She laughed doubtfully.

"'Would you rather I went away?' I asked, politely. 'My family is
respectable,' I added; and I told her my name.

"'Oh! Then you wrote _Culled Cowslips_ and _Faded Fig-Leaves_ and you
imitate Maeterlinck, and you--Oh, I know lots of people that you
know;' she cried, with every symptom of relief; 'and you know my
brother.'

"'I am the author,' said I, coldly, 'of _Culled Cowslips_, but _Faded
Fig-Leaves_ was an earlier work, which I no longer recognize, and I
should be grateful to you if you would be kind enough to deny that I
ever imitated Maeterlinck. Possibly,' I added, 'he imitates me.'

"She was very quiet, and I saw she was sorry.

"'Never mind,' I said, magnanimously, 'you probably are not familiar
with modern literature. If I knew your name I should ask permission to
present myself.'

"'Why, I am Daisy Holroyd,' she said.

"'What! Jack Holroyd's little sister?'

"'Little?' she cried.

"'I didn't mean that,' said I. 'You know that your brother and I were
great friends in Paris--'

"'I know,' she said, significantly.

"'Ahem! Of course,' I said, 'Jack and I were inseparable--'

"'Except when shut in separate cells,' said Miss Holroyd, coldly.

"This unfeeling allusion to the unfortunate termination of a
Latin-Quarter celebration hurt me.

"'The police,' said I, 'were too officious.'

"'So Jack says,' replied Miss Holroyd, demurely.

"We had unconsciously moved on along the sand-hills, side by side, as
we spoke.

"'To think,' I repeated, 'that I should meet Jack's little--'

"'Please,' she said, 'you are only three years my senior.'

"She opened the sunshade and tipped it over one shoulder. It was
white, and had spots and posies on it.

"'Jack sends us every new book you write,' she observed. 'I do not
approve of some things you write.'

"'Modern school,' I mumbled.

"'That is no excuse,' she said, severely; 'Anthony Trollope didn't do
it.'

"The foam spume from the breakers was drifting across the dunes, and
the little tip-up snipe ran along the beach and teetered and whistled
and spread their white-barred wings for a low, straight flight across
the shingle, only to tip and run and sail on again. The salt sea-wind
whistled and curled through the crested waves, blowing in perfumed
puffs across thickets of sweet bay and cedar. As we passed thro