Only a poet could do that.

Trefusis was no poet, but a sordid brute unlikely to inspire interest in anything more human than a public meeting, much less in a woman, much less again in a woman so ethereal as Gertrude.

She was proud too, yet she had allowed the fellow to insult her--had forgiven him for the sake of a few broad compliments.

Erskine grew angry and cynical.

The situation did not suit his poetry.