"He sends me flowers and writes me poetry. We exchange," she explained,
and there came to her eyes a delightfully critical appreciation of her
own doings.

"The heavenly person has--I suppose--a name?" Frank suggested.

"Dermott McDermott."

"Has the heavenly person also a profession?"

"He is"--Mrs. Ravenel hesitated a minute--"he is an international lawyer
and a Wall Street man."

"It sounds imposing," Frank returned. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know," his mother answered. "_I_ have enough of the artist in
me to be satisfied with the mere sound. His English--"

"His Irish," Frank interrupted.

--"is that of Dublin University, the most beautiful speech in the world.
He is here in the interest of the Mainwaring people, he says, who want
some information concerning those disputed mines. Added to his other
attractions, he can talk in rhyme. Do you understand? _Can talk in
rhyme_," she repeated, with emphasis, "and carries a Tom Moore in his
waistcoat-pocket."

There came a sound of singing outside--a man's voice, musical, with an
indescribably jaunty clip to the words: