Eric was very confident. Norman agreed with him, and he glanced at Mae
to discover her opinion. There was a look of secret amusement in her
face, and a dim suspicion entered his mind, which decided him to watch
her closely.

"Well," said Mrs. Jerrold, "I will be lenient. You children may throw
all the stones. It is not poetry to my taste. There's no metre to it,
and I should certainly be sorry to think a woman wrote it."

"Why?" asked Mae, quickly, almost commandingly. Norman glanced at her.
There was a tiny rosebud on each cheek.

"Because," replied Mrs. Jerrold, "it is too--too what, Edith?"

"Physical, perhaps," suggested Edith.

"It is a satyr-like sort of writing," suggested Norman.

"I should advise this person," said Edith--

"To keep still?" interrupted Eric.

"No, to go to work; that is what he or she needs."

"That is odd advice," said Mae; "suppose she--or he--is young, doesn't
know what to do, is a traveler, like ourselves, for instance."

"There are plenty of benevolent schemes in Rome, I am sure," said Edith,
a trifle sanctimoniously.