"My poor, dear Johnnie, I am so sorry," murmured the young woman. I was
sitting in the large armchair where she had sat the memorable night of
the lecture that neither of us attended. She had seated herself on one
of the arms.
"You mustn't be despondent!" She was patting my hand.
She mistook my rage at the gratuitous insults Spalton had heaped on me
as despondency. She leaned closer against me ... quickly I caught her
into my arms, drew her into my lap ... held her little, quiet, amazed
face in my hands firmly, as I kissed and kissed her.... I knew how to
kiss now....
She rose presently. I stood up and caught her in my arms. Slowly and
firmly she disengaged herself ... silently she slid away. She stopped in
the shadow a moment before going up the long, winding stairs.
"Good night, my dear poet," she whispered.
She had no sooner disappeared than I started out, my heart beating like
a drum to a charge in me. Spalton frequently wrote till late, in his
office. I would go over there and, if he was there, call him to account
for his insults. There was a light lit within, and I could see him
through the window at his desk.
"Come in!" in answer to my knock. "Oh, it's you, Razorre!" and his eyes
snapped with fresh resentment. "What do you want? Don't you know that
I'm busy on _A Brief Visit_?"
"You know why I'm here!"
"Well?" challengingly.
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