As it was, the more
she read and thought, the farther she seemed from a conclusion, and the
time Vavasor stood there waiting, appeared to both of them three times
as long as it really was. At last he felt he was pounded and must try
back.
"You have discovered," he said, "that the song is an imitation of Sir
John Suckling!"
He had never thought of the man while writing it.
"I don't know anything of him," answered Hester, looking up.
Vavasor knew nothing was more unlikely than that she should know
anything of him.
"When did he write?" she asked.
"In the reign of Charles I., I believe," he answered.
"But tell me," said Hester, "where is the good of imitating anyone--even
the best of writers. Our own original, however poor, must be the thing
for us! To imitate is to repudiate our own being."
"That I admit," answered Vavasor, who never did anything original except
when he followed his instincts; "but for a mere trial of skill an
imitation is admissible--don't you think?"
"Oh, surely," replied Hester; "only it seems to me a waste of
time--especially with such a gift as you have of your own!"
"At all events," said Vavasor, hiding his gratification with false
humility, "there was no great presumption in a shy at Suckling!"
"There may have been the more waste," returned Hester.
Pages:
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199