“Why, fathead, that we both coppied it from somebody else--out of some
book by some well-known proper dead poet. I’ve no doubt now, on thinking
over it, that Browne _did_ do that; because when I first read his poem I
could hardly believe that he had written such real poetry, owing to the
rimes and smoothness. But it’s all over now. She’s written a letter I
can’t show you. To hope even for her friendship wouldn’t be any good. A
girl hates a joke something frightful.”
“How about Browne?” I said.
“She’s written to him also, asking him where he got the verses out of,
and exsplaining she doesn’t believe they are original, and saying how
another acquaintance of hers had sent the very same lot the day before.
So now you see what a sinful mess you’ve made of it.”