Some time passed in silence, and then she too rose to depart. She
held out her hand to Donal with a kind of irresolute motion, but
withdrawing it, smiled almost beseechingly, and said,
"I wish I might ask you something. I know it is a rude question, but
if you could see all, you would answer me and let the offence go."
"I will answer you anything you choose to ask."
"That makes it the more difficult; but I will--I cannot bear to
remain longer in doubt: did you really write that poem you gave to
Kate Graeme--compose it, I mean, your own self?"
"I made no secret of that when I gave it her," said Donal, not
perceiving her drift.
"Then you did really write it?"
Donal looked at her in perplexity. Her face grew very red, and tears
began to come in her eyes.
"You must pardon me!" she said: "I am so ignorant! And we live in
such an out-of-the-way place that--that it seems very unlikely a
real poet--! And then I have been told there are people who have a
passion for appearing to do the thing they are not able to do, and I
was anxious to be quite sure! My mind would keep brooding over it,
and wondering, and longing to know for certain!--So I resolved at
last that I would be rid of the doubt, even at the risk of offending
you. I know I have been rude--unpardonably rude, but--"
"But," supplemented Donal, with a most sympathetic smile, for he
understood her as his own thought, "you do not feel quite sure yet!
What a priori reason do you see why I should not be able to write
verses? There is no rule as to where poetry grows: one place is as
good as another for that!"
"I hope you will forgive me! I hope I have not offended you very
much!"
"Nobody in such a world as this ought to be offended at being asked
for proof.
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