“You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. "But I have one last request to make. Yet the fact remains that you do not understand me at all. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours.
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