He wished to thank
her for the letter she had written him to St. Petersburg, but was
fearful of seeming to make too much of this mark of kindness. Irene
herself resumed the conversation.
"You will continue to write for the reviews, I hope?"
"I shall try to," he answered softly.
"Your Russian must be very idiomatic. I found it hard in places."
Overcome with delight, he looked at her and bent towards her.
"Mrs. Borisoff told me you had learnt. I know what that means--
learning Russian in England, out of books. I began to do it at Ewell
--do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember very well. Have you written anything besides these
two articles?"
"Written--yes, but not published. I have written all sorts of
things." His voice shook. "Even--verse."
He repented the word as soon as it was uttered. Again his eyes could
not move towards hers.
"I know you have," said Irene, in the voice of one who smiles.
"I have never been sure that you knew it--that you received those
verses."
"To tell you the truth, I didn't know how to acknowledge them. I
never received the dedication of a poem, before or since, and in my
awkwardness I put off my thanks till it was too late to send them.
But I remember the lines; I think they were beautiful. Shall you
ever include them in a volume?"
"I wrote no more, I am no poet. Yet if you had given a word of
praise"--he laughed, as one does when emotion is too strong--"I
should have written on and on, with a glorious belief in myself.
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