Page:Life of Thomas Hardy - Brennecke.pdf/40

 visited him a couple of months ago. Everybody has been wondering what those two talked about at that time. Nobody knows. But now, I could tell you a story or two—only he doesn't like us to talk about him. But anyway, maybe, after all, I might tell you—"

Tilley never tells you, because a shy young player edges in here, nervously fumbling a typewritten paper. He delivers his message in one short breath:

"I've written a poem."

He produces a fountain pen, carefully unscrews the cap, writes on his manuscript.

"Will you read it, keep it, maybe? It's about Hardy. Here's a copy. I've signed it for you."

You read: