"That's the way I feel about you!" I ended.
She gave a lovely laugh ... held out both her hands, dropping the quirt
on the floor ... took my hands and leaned back gaily, like a child.
"Oh, I know who you are ... you're Razorre ... father wrote me a lot
about you ... when I lived East ... you were one of his pet 'nuts'!"
We sat there and conversed a long time. She talked of Socrates and Plato
as if she had broken bread with them ... she discussed science, history,
art as if wisdom and understanding were nearer her desire than anything
else....
She was the child of "John" and Dorothy.
* * * * *
Again Spalton asked me to stay, "we need a poet for Eos!"
But I insisted that I must go on and acquire a college education ...
which he maintained would be a hindrance, not a help--"they will iron
you out, and make you a decent member of society--and then, Razorre, God
help the poet in you ... poets and artists should never be decent ...
only the true son of Ishmael can ever write or paint," he waved.
* * * * *
There came to the artworkers one day a young Southern woman, a six
months' widow ... she was gentle and lily-coloured and lovely. She had
great, swimming, blue eyes, a sensitive red bow of a mouth ... and the
lashes of her eyes lay far down on her cheeks. She was the first woman I
had met who approximated my poet's ideal of what a woman should be.
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