"Poetry ..." he vaguely breathed.
"Yes, sir," said Carlo Trent. "Poetry."
"I've never read any poetry in my life," said Edward Henry, like a
desperate criminal. "Not a line."
Whereupon Carlo Trent rose up from his seat, and his eyeglasses
dangled in front of him.
"Mr. Machin," said he with the utmost benevolence. "This is the most
interesting thing I've ever come across. Do you know, you're precisely
the man I've always been wanting to meet?... The virgin mind. The
clean slate.... Do you know, you're precisely the man that it's my
ambition to write for?"
"It's very kind of you," said Edward Henry, feebly; beaten, and
consciously beaten.
(He thought miserably:
"What would Nellie think if she saw me in this gang?")
Carlo Trent went on, turning to Rose Euclid:
"Rose, will you recite those lines of Nashe?"
Rose Euclid began to blush.
"That bit you taught me the day before yesterday?"
"Only the three lines! No more! They are the very essence of
poetry--poetry at its purest. We'll see the effect of them on Mr.
Machin. We'll just see. It's the ideal opportunity to test my theory.
Now, there's a good girl!"
"Oh! I can't. I'm too nervous," stammered Rose.
"You can, and you must," said Carlo, gazing at her in homage. "Nobody
in the world can say them as well as you can. Now!"
Rose Euclid stood up.
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