And yet it was to nothing definite, to no man, nor outline of a man, to no phantom nor dream-lover, that she spoke; neither to him she had affronted, nor to him who had bidden her look to the stars. Nor was it to the stars themselves.
She returned slowly and thoughtfully to the house, wondering what she had meant.
CHAPTER XI. A Voice in a Garden
Crailey came home the next day with a new poem, but no fish. He lounged up the stairs, late in the afternoon, humming cheerfully to himself, and, dropping his rod in a corner of Tom's office, laid the poem on the desk before his partner, produced a large, newly-replenished flask, opened it, stretched himself comfortably upon a capacious horse-hair sofa, drank a deep draught, chuckled softly, and requested Mr. Vanrevel to set the rhymes to music immediately.
“Try it on your instrument,” he said. “It's a simple verse about nothing but stars, and you can work it out in twenty minutes with the guitar.”
“It is broken,” said Tom, not looking up from his work.
“Broken! When?”
“Last night.”
“Who broke it?”