One slight drawback there was--where is the friendship without it?--Sir Philip had a literary turn. He wrote poetry--sonnets, stanzas, ballads. Perhaps Miss Keeldar thought him a little too fond of reading and reciting these compositions; perhaps she wished the rhyme had possessed more accuracy, the measure more music, the tropes more freshness, the inspiration more fire. At any rate, she always winced when he recurred to the subject of his poems, and usually did her best to divert the conversation into another channel.
He would beguile her to take moonlight walks with him on the bridge, for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of pouring into her ear the longest of his ballads. He would lead her away to sequestered rustic seats, whence the rush of the surf to the sands was heard soft and soothing; and when he had her all to himself, and the sea lay before them, and the scented shade of gardens spread round, and the tall shelter of cliffs rose behind them, he would pull out his last batch of sonnets, and read them in a voice tremulous with emotion. He did not seem to know that though they might be rhyme they were not poetry. It appeared, by Shirley's downcast eye and disturbed face, that she knew it, and felt heartily mortified by the single foible of this good and amiable gentleman.

One slight drawback there was: Sir Philip had a literary turn. He wrote poetry - sonnets and ballads. Perhaps Miss Keeldar thought him a little too fond of reciting these works; perhaps she wished them a little better written, a little more original. At any rate, she always winced when he referred to his poems, and tried to divert the conversation into another channel.
He would beguile her to take moonlight walks with him for the sole purpose, it seemed, of pouring into her ear his longest ballads. He would lead her away to lonely spots by the sea, and in the scented shade of gardens, with tall cliffs rising behind them, he would pull out his latest batch of sonnets, and read them in a voice tremulous with emotion. He did not seem to know that though they might be rhyme, they were not poetry. It appeared, by Shirley's face, that she knew it, and felt heartily mortified by the single foible of this good and amiable gentleman.
