satisfied his pride.

'Am I? Then why do you like me? Or do you like me because I am
strange?'

'I wish I were a poet,' observed Greif instead of answering her. 'I
would write such things about you as have never been written about any
woman. However, I suppose you would never read my verses.'

'Oh yes!' laughed Hilda. 'Especially if mamma told me that they
belonged to the "best German epoch." But I should not like them--'

'You do not like poetry in general, I believe.'

'It always seems to me a very unnatural way of expressing oneself,'
answered Hilda thoughtfully. 'Why should a man go out of his way to put
what he wants to say into a certain shape? What necessity is there for
putting in a word more than is needed, or for pinching oneself so as to
cut one out that would be useful for the sense, just because by doing
that you can make everything fit a certain mould and sound mechanical--
ta ra tatatata ta tum tum! "Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten" and
all the rest of it. There is something wrong. That poem is very sad and
romantic in idea, and yet you always sing it when you are particularly
happy.'

'Most people do,' said Greif, smiling at the truth of the observation.

'Then what is there in poetry? Does "I love you" sound sweeter if it is
followed by a mechanical "ta ra ta ra ta tum" of words quite
unnecessary to the thought, and which you only hear because they jingle