And John lighted a cigar and nodded approvingly at the enormous hump of a mountain. The nightcap looked very pretty in the starlight.
I waited for, John to say something more, for I wished the expression of his views to be quite spontaneous. But he did not seem to feel communicative, and I had to begin.
"How about the cynicism, Jack?" said I, at last.
"It isn't visible to the naked eye."
"And the poems. Do you believe she wrote them?"
"She doesn't look it. But it is difficult to judge. What do you think about it, Dick?"
"Women are deep," said I, thinking it best to be non-committal.
We discussed the question off and on as we walked up to the north end of the town and back, but we did not get much enlightenment. It was clear which way our wishes went. John did not wish her to have written the poems, while I did.
