"To a Pretty Saint."

When Mrs. Delane came back from London, she was met with a question of the precise kind on which she felt herself to be no mean authority. It was a problem of propriety, of etiquette, and of the usages of society, and Mrs. Delane attacked it with a due sense of its importance and with the pleasure of an expert. It arose out of Dale Bannister's call at the Grange. Dale had been accustomed, when a lady found favor in his eyes, to inform her of the gratifying news through the medium of a set of verses, more or less enthusiastic and rhapsodic in their nature. The impulse to follow his usual practice was strong on him after meeting Janet Delane, and issued in the composition of that poem called "To a Pretty Saint," the title of which Nellie had seen. He copied it out fair, and was about to put it in the post when a thought suddenly struck him. Miss Delane was not quite like most of his acquaintances. It was perhaps possible that she might think his action premature, or even impertinent, and that she might deem it incumbent on her to resent being called either a saint or pretty by a friend of one interview's standing. Dale was divided between his newborn doubt of his own instinct of what was permissible and his great reluctance to doom his work to suppression. He decided to consult Philip Hume, who was, as he knew, more habituated to the social atmosphere of places like Denshire.

"Eh? what?" said Philip, who was busily engaged in writing a newspaper article. "Written a poem to a girl? All right. I'll listen presently."

"I don't want you to listen. I want your advice as to whether to send it or not."

"If you've wasted your time writing the thing,—by the way, take care the Doctor doesn't hear of it,—you may as well send it."

"The question is, whether she'll be offended."

"I'm glad it isn't more important, because I'm busy."

"Look here! Stop that anonymous stabber of yours and listen. It's to Miss Delane."

Philip stopped in the middle of a particularly vicious paragraph of the "stabber," and looked up with amusement on his face.

"It's a perfectly—you know—suitable poem," pursued Dale. "The only question is, will she think it a liberty?"

"Oh, send it. They like getting 'em;" and Philip took up his pen again.

"You don't know the sort of girl she is."

"Then what the deuce is the good of asking me? Ask Nellie."

"No, I shan't," said Dale shortly.

Thus thrown, by his friend's indifference, on his own judgment, Dale made up his mind to send the verses,—he could not deny himself the pleasure,—but, half alarmed at his own audacity, which feeling was a new one in him, he "hedged" by inclosing with them a letter of an apologetic character. Miss Delane was not to suppose that he took the liberty of referring to her in the terms of his title: the little copy of verses had merely been suggested by a remark she made. He had failed to find an answer on the spot. Would she pardon him for giving his answer now in this indirect way?—and so forth.

The verses, with their accompanying letter, were received by Janet, and Janet had no doubt of what she did feel about them, but some considerable doubt as to what she ought to feel; so she carried them to her mother. Mrs. Delane put on her pince-nez and read the documents in the case.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to be—anything but what's nice, mamma," said Janet.

"I dare say not, my dear. The question is, whether the young man knows his manners. Let's see."

After careful perusal, during which Janet watched her mother's face with some anxiety, Mrs. Delane delivered judgment.

"There's no positive harm in them," she said, "and I don't think we need take any actual steps. Still, Janet, he is evidently to be treated with discretion."

"How do you mean, mamma?"

"Well, he isn't in need of encouragement, is he? He's not backward in making friends."

"I suppose not. May I keep them?"

"Keep them? Do you want to keep them?"

"Not particularly, dear," answered Janet. "I—I thought he meant me to."

"No doubt. Write a civil note, dear, thank him for letting you see them, and return them inclosed."

Janet was a little reluctant to part with her autograph manuscript,—not because of its pecuniary value, though that was more than a trifle, had she known, but because such things are pleasant possessions to show to envious friends,—but she did as she was told. She did not, however, feel herself bound altogether to smother her pride or to make a secret of the tribute she had received. Tora Smith heard the story with evident amusement, and, thinking that others would share her appreciation of it, relieved the somewhat uphill course of Mrs. Hodge's call by a repetition of it: whereby it happened that Nellie Fane came to know, not only that Dale had written verses to Miss Delane and sent them, but also that Miss Delane had returned the offering. She told Philip the latter fact, and the two ventured to rally the poet on the occurrence. Dale took their action very badly, and his displeasure soon reduced Nellie to apologies. Philip was less sensitive.

"D. W. T., by Jove!" he remarked. "Quite like old times, Dale!"

Dale muttered something about "infernal chatter."

"You will soon be in a position to publish a volume of 'Rejected Addresses.'"

"Not at all," said Dale. "It's simply that she didn't understand I meant her to keep them."

"Oh, that's her delicate way of snubbing you, my boy."

"What the deuce do you know about it, Phil? You never wrote verses in your life. Don't you agree with me, Nellie?"

"Miss Smith said Miss Delane thought she had better not keep them."

"I knew that girl was a gossip directly I set eyes on her."

"You're naturally hurt, old fellow, but——"

"Go to the deuce! Look here, I'll bet you a fiver she takes them back and keeps them."

"Done!" said Philip, and Dale seized his hat.

"Why does he want her to take them?" asked Nellie.

"Vanity, my dear, vanity. I suppose he's accustomed to having his verses laid up in lavender. Is that what you do with yours?"

"He never wrote me any," answered Nellie in a tone of superlative indifference.

It being only two o'clock, Dale felt he could not yet go to the Grange. He made a detour by the town, on pretense of buying stamps; and, the stars fighting with him, outside the Mayor's shop he saw Janet talking to the Mayor himself.

"Thank you, Miss Delane, miss," said the Mayor. "Mrs. Hedger is doin' nicely. She had a bit of feverishness about her, but Dr. Spink's treated her wonderful."

"Dr. Spink? I thought you went to Dr. Roberts?"

"I did, miss, but—— Well, things come round to me, miss, being a center like."

"What things?"

"Well, you may not have heard, miss, of the things that—— Good-mornin', Mr. Bannister, sir, good-mornin'. A fine day. Anything in our line, sir?"

"Good-morning, Mr. Mayor," said Dale. "Ah, Miss Delane, how do you do?"

His coming interrupted Janet's investigations into the affairs of the Doctor, and she took her leave of the Mayor, Dale assuming permission to walk with her. He ought to have asked, no doubt, thought Janet, but it would be making too much of it to tell him so.

They had hardly started when he turned to her:

"Why did you send back my verses?"

"I could hardly venture to keep them, could I?"

"Why not?"

"On so slight an acquaintance! It was very kind of you to let me see them before they were published."

"They're not going to be published."

"Oh, you must publish them. They're so very pretty."

"Didn't you think I meant you to keep them?"

"I should have been very conceited if I had, shouldn't I?"

"Well, they were for you—not to be published. If you don't like them, they'll be burned, that's all."

Janet stole a glance at his face; he looked like a petulant Apollo—so she thought.

"That would be a pity," she said gravely; "but I don't think I ought to keep them."

"Why not?"

Socrates is reported to have said that nothing is reasonable which cannot be stated in a reasonable form. Miss Janet Delane would have dissented.

"Of course I like them very much. But—well, we haven't known each other very long, Mr. Bannister."

"You mean it was impertinent?"

"Oh, no. I thought your letter perfect—I did really. But mamma thought——"

"Oh!" said Dale, with brightening face. "You would have kept them?"

"That's not the question," said Janet, smiling. It was pleasant to see Apollo looking less petulant. "But what would people say if they heard I had poems of Mr. Dale Bannister's about me? I should be thought a dangerous person."

"I'll write some which you would like to have."

"I am sure you could, if you only would. Fancy, if you wrote really noble verses—worthy of you!"

"Well, I will, if it will please you."

"Nonsense, Mr. Bannister! There's no question of pleasing me: it doesn't matter—well, I mean, then, the great thing is to do justice to yourself."

"I ought to have some encouragement in well-doing," said Dale plaintively.

She shook her head with a smile, and he went on:

"I wish you'd come to Littlehill and see the house. I've improved it tremendously."

"Oh, you must invite mamma."

"Would Mrs. Delane come?"

This question was a little awkward, for Mrs. Delane, after cross-examining Tora Smith closely as to Mrs. Hodge and her daughter, had announced that she would not go.

"A bachelor doesn't entertain ladies, does he?"

"I should like to; and there are some ladies——" A sudden thought struck him, and he stopped. He looked so pointedly at Janet that, to her intense annoyance, she felt herself blushing. She made the grave mistake of changing the conversation abruptly.

"How did you like the Smiths?"

"Oh, pretty well."

"I should have thought you would have got on tremendously well together."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I like people to be one thing or the other, and the Smiths are halfway housers."

"You're very ungrateful."

"Oh, they only asked us as a demonstration," said Dale, who had some acuteness.

Janet laughed, but her companion was moodily prodding the ground with his stick as he walked along.

They reached a cottage where she had a visit to pay, and she bade him good-by.

"Then you won't have the verses?"

"I think not."

"Very well, then, here goes;" and he took the paper out of his pocket and tore it to bits. The fragments fluttered to the ground.

"How foolish!" she said. "I dare say they were worth a lot of money—but, then, you can write them out again."

"Do you think I shall?" he asked, grinding the fragments into the mud.

"I'm afraid you will do nothing wise," she said, giving him her hand. Yet the extravagance rather pleased her.

Until Dale reached his own house it did not strike him that he had lost his bet. Philip quickly reminded him, and laughed mercilessly when a crumpled five-pound note was thrown at his head by his angry friend.

"I tell you she wanted to keep them," said Dale unjustifiably.

"Then why didn't she?" asked Nellie.

"Mrs. Delane didn't approve of it."

"I expect Mrs. Delane doesn't approve of you at all," remarked Philip.

"No, nor of my friends either," answered Dale, flinging himself into a chair.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Hodge, who sat by, "her opinion will neither make us nor mar us."

"How have we had the misfortune to offend the lady?" inquired Philip. "She has never seen us."

"Here's your tea, Dale," said Nellie. "Are you tired?"

"Yes, a little. Thanks, Nellie."

"Was she looking nice, Dale?"

"I didn't see her."

"I mean Miss Delane."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. I didn't look much."