He had big grey eyes, which seemed especially noticeable by reason of enormous tortoise-rimmed glasses, whose long, thick bows hooked over his ears.
"You are a poet," Patty said, decisively, after a smiling survey; "and you are right, I have always wanted to know a live poet." "I hope," said Blaney, in a mournful way, "that you don't agree with those wiseacres who think the only good poet is a dead poet." "Oh, goodness, no!" said Patty, quickly.

"But most of the poetry with which I am familiar was written by dead men--that is, they weren't dead when they wrote it, you know----" "But died from the shock ?" "Now you're making fun of me," and Patty pouted, but as Patty's pout was only a shade less charming than her smile, the live poet didn't seem to resent it.
"Doubtless," he went on, "my work will not be really famous until after I am dead, but some day I shall read them to you, and get your opinion as to their hopes for a future." "Oh, do read them to Patty," exclaimed Elise; "read them now.

That's the very thing for a stormy day!" "Yes," Patty agreed; "if you have an Ode to Spring, or Lines on a Blooming Daffodil, it would be fine to fling them in the teeth of this storm." "I see you're by way of being a wag, Miss Fairfield," Blaney returned, good-naturedly.

"But you've misapprehended my vein.

I write poems, not jingles." "He does," averred Elise, earnestly.