WHEN PIPPA PASSED
"Would she?" Anne returned quietly, and was ashamed of his freakish impulse.
When they told him that evening that they had been able to accomplish nothing he only stared at them gloomily.
"I knew it—I knew it," he muttered. "I did a poem last night—it's the last I shall ever do. You can put it in the book. It's the best I've done yet."
Delafield hardly noticed his words as he seized the poem. What if from this sordid little tragedy had sprung the very flower of the poet's genius? He read eagerly. In a moment his face fell. He stared doubtfully at the boy.
"Well," said West irritably, "can't you read it? Give it here—I'll read it to you."
"You needn't, I can read it well enough."
"What do you think of it?"
"I think it's rot," Delafield returned curtly. He was bitterly disappointed.
"Rot?" the boy's eyes narrowed. "What d'you mean?"
"I mean that this doggerel is utterly unworthy of you, West, and that you certainly cannot in-
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