"Bibbs!" Edith's voice was angry, and her color deepened suddenly
as she came into the room, preceded by a scent of violets much more
powerful than that warranted by the actual bunch of them upon the
lapel of her coat.

Bibbs did not turn his head, but wagged it solemnly, seeming depressed
by the poem. "Pretty young, isn't it?" he said. "There must have
been something about your looks that got the prize, Edith; I can't
believe the poem did it."

She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder and spoke sharply, but in a
low voice: "I don't think it's very nice of you to bring it up at
all, Bibbs. I'd like a chance to forget the whole silly business.
I didn't want them to frame it, and I wish to goodness papa'd quit
talking about it; but here, that night, after the dinner, didn't he go
and read it aloud to the whole crowd of 'em! And then they all wanted
to know what other poems I'd written and why I didn't keep it up and
write some more, and if I didn't, why didn't I, and why this and why
that, till I thought I'd die of shame!"

"You could tell 'em you had writer's cramp," Bibbs suggested.

"I couldn't tell 'em anything! I just choke with mortification every
time anybody speaks of the thing."

Bibbs looked grieved. "The poem isn't THAT bad, Edith. You see, you
were only seventeen when you wrote it."

"Oh, hush up!" she snapped. "I wish it had burnt my fingers the first