"Pretty platitudes! Read them before a score of times--and somewhat
more happily expressed. If I were a poet--which I'm not, thank
goodness!--I could turn 'em out by the score. Ten shillings each,
reduction upon taking a dozen. Suitable for amateur tenors, or the
fashion-magazines. Alterations made if required... Anything else in
the lucky bag?"
"There's my note-book. They are all in there--the new ones, I mean,
written since I came up here. You can read which you please."
Ron took the precious leather book from his pocket, and handed it over
with an effort as painful as that of submitting a live nerve to the
dentist's tool. As he sat on the ground beside his critic he dug his
heels into the grass, and the knuckles of his clenched hands showed
white through the tan. The beginning had not been propitious, and he
knew well that no consideration for his feelings would seal the lips of
this most honest of critics. For a few moments he had not courage to
look at his companion's face, but even without that eloquent guide it
was easy to follow his impressions.
A grunt, a groan, a long incredulous whistle, a sharp intake of breath--
these were but too readily translated as adverse criticisms, but between
these explosions came intervals of silence less easy to explain. Ron
deliberately rolled over on his side, turning his back on his companion,
thereby making it impossible to see his face. Those who have never
trusted their inmost thoughts to paper can hardly imagine the acute
suffering of the moment when they are submitted to the cold criticism of
an outsider. Life and death themselves seemed to hang in the balance
for the young poet during the half-hour when he lay on the heather
listening to each sound and movement of his critic. At the end of half
an hour the interruption came. A yawn, a groan, the pressure of a heavy
hand on his shoulder.
"Now then, wake up, over there! Time to move on!"
Awake! As if it were possible that he could be asleep! Never in his
life had he been more acutely, painfully conscious of his surroundings.
Ron rose to his feet, casting the while a tense glance at his
companion's face. What verdict would he see written on eye and mouth as
the result of that half-hour's study? He met a smile of bland good-
humour; the cheery, carelessly complacent smile of the breakfast-table,
the smoke-room, the after-dinner game; with not one trace of emotion, of
kindled feeling, or even ordinary appreciation! The black note-book was
tossed into his hands, as carelessly as if it had been a ball; even a
commonplace word of comment was denied.