'That Man!' he cried -- and ran out of the room with a furious look at his niece.
She ran out after him. Sir John followed on tiptoe, and listened at the half-opened door.
'There's more excuse for me, uncle, than you think,' Mabel pleaded. 'Sir John Bosworth has one merit which you really ought to allow. He is a poet like yourself -- he has just written this.'
She began to read the verses:
They say she's dark; yes, like the night Whose beauty shines from starry skies --
Her uncle snatched the paper out of her hand. 'My Poetry!' he shouted.
Before his niece could stop him, he was back again in the library. 'Thief!' he called out at the top of his voice.
Mabel made a vain attempt to quiet him. She had forgotten the inhuman review. Not so the major. Even at that trying moment he could have repeated the most atrocious insults inflicted on him in the newspaper without missing a word.
'The scoundrel has been among My Manuscripts!' cried the infuriated poet. 'I've longed to murder him for the last six months. And now I'll do it!'
It was useless to search the room. Sir John Bosworth had made his escape.
At a later period, when Mabel was asked why she had married Cyril instead of Sir John, she used to answer --
'The Poetry did it.'