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Miss Delia read it all through again, dwelling on certain lines, which she indicated by her forefinger, with special attention; then she looked up timidly. She met Lucyet's unsmiling eyes for a moment; then she, too, looked away, hurriedly, helplessly, to the dish of boiled potatoes. "I'm sure it is very nice very nice indeed, Lucyet," she said. "But you don't like it," said Lucyet.
But she must say something more. Lucyet's patient silence as she went on with her dinner, never raising the eyes which had so shone when she first spoke, demanded speech from her more urgently than louder claims.
One of them held a copy of the "Daily Chronicle," gesturing with it somewhat jerkily as he spoke. For a moment the hope that it is hard to make away with revived in Lucyet's breast. Were they talking of the poem, she wondered, with a certain weary interest. She dreaded a fresh disappointment so keenly that it pained her to speculate much on the chance of it.
But it's my fault, just as likely as not," she laid her hand on Lucyet's arm, "that's what I want to say; you mustn't take it to heart just 's likely 's not, it's my fault." Miss Delia did not believe a word of what she was saying, which made it difficult for her to articulate; but she was making a brave effort in her sensitive loyalty.
At last the cup of satisfaction was at Lucyet's lips; at least she had not overestimated the purport of the event to one human being. "Printed," repeated Lucyet, smiling softly. "Here it is in the paper." Miss Delia pushed aside her plate, seized the paper, and, opening it, searched its columns. She had not to look long; there was but one poem. Lucyet watched with shining eyes.
Miss Delia had fostered Lucyet's love for literature; and it was to Miss Delia that Lucyet hastened with the great news of the publication of her poem.
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