"Welcome to Eden," then, introducing, "this is my secretary, Miss Ruth
Hazlitt; she's been quite keen to meet you ... we've talked of you a lot
... she knows your poetry and thinks you're a genius, and will some day
be recognised as a great poet."
Ruth Hazlitt nodded, shy, took my hand in introduction.
"Darrie, oh, Dar-_rie_!" called Baxter ... "a Southern society girl, but
a mighty good radical already," he explained to me, _sotto voce_, as we
heard sounds of her approach.
Mary Darfield Malcolm came in, in a flimsy dressing gown of yellow, with
blue ribbons in it, her hair wet and still done up in a towel. Superbly
she trusted to her big eyes of limpid brown, and to the marble-like
pallour of her complexion, the twin laughing dimples in her cheeks ...
she added her welcome to the others ... easily, with a Southern way of
speech that caught each recalcitrant word by the tail and caressed its
back as it came out....
* * * * *
That afternoon, at Baxter's suggestion, he and I launched forth on a
walk together....
"There is some beautiful country for walking about here."
* * * * *
"Darrie, will you and Ruth have the veal steak cooked by six o'clock?"
I noticed that he did not include his wife. Also, I looked at him in
amazement ... a look the significance of which he instantly caught .
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