He had never, at any rate, been such a little gentleman as when, after our early dinner on this dreadful day, he came round to me and asked if I shouldn't like him, for half an hour, to play to me. At this Stephen forgot the silent vows he had been making and burst out: --Tennyson a poet! Why, he's only a rhymester! --O, get out! said Heron. But he felt no wonder now. How beautiful must be a soul in the state of grace when God looked upon it with love! Frowsy girls sat along the curbstones before their baskets.