“What do you mean? Your fate?”
“I don’t know exactly myself. But, nevertheless, in some way or other that look-out tower is connected with my fate—the fate of poor Sara St. John.”
In John Hoffman’s room at the same time another conversation was going on.
John. “Has she genius, do you think?”
Eugenio. “Not an iota.”
John. “What do you mean, you iron-hearted despot? Has the girl no poetry in her?”
UNITED STATES BARRACKS—A DRESS PARADE.
Eugenio. “Plenty; but not of the kind that can express itself in writing. Sara St. John has poetry, but she ought not to try to write it; she is one of the kind to—”
John. “Well, what?”