Mason suddenly reached out and took the girl's right hand. Her voice died out and her eyes met his. He drew her hand toward him and laid his lips upon it.
"You're a poet," he said. "You have found your voice, and I—I love you because you are a poet and because you are a beautiful woman."
The touch of his bearded lips upon her hand was the event of her life, and the whole world reshaped itself. His praise of her poem, her victory over him as a critic was great, but his final words drowned in fierce light the flame of her art's enthusiasm.
Once more a man's voice came to her, filled with entreaty and command, but in this case she had no reservations. It was well, it was inevitable, and it was glorious to set her face toward wifehood and fame with such a man as companion, friend and lover.
A couple of weeks later, Mason came down from his room with a grim look on his face. He stepped out on the porch and stood there feeling the change in the air. The summer was over.
Rose came out, and he put his arm about her.
"Hark!" he commanded. "Do you hear the wind in the tree-tops? It brings me the roar of the city this morning. I hear the grind of cars, the roar of mills, the throb of presses; the city calls me and I must go. My vacation is over. I must say good-by tonight."
"It's very beautiful up here now," she said a little wistfully. "The sumac is beginning to turn and the hills are like jewels."
"Oh yes, it is beautiful," he said smiling a little. "But down there life is. Infinite novelty, ceaseless change. As you love the country, so I love the city. It is a greater pleasure to me to meet men than trees, and concerts are more than winds in the pines. Artist souls, poets, people who do and think, are there, and so I must go."
"When shall I go?" she asked.