"Nonsense," he replied, "this is as good a place in which to develop your poetic genius as any place in the world. I may say, better. Here you will find congenial environment, ready appreciation .. come, let us walk a little further," and we turned aside from the steps of the dining room and struck down the main street of the town.
"I mean bigger things for you, Razorre, than you can guess.... I will make you the Eos Poet—look at Gresham, he is the Eos Artist, and, as such, his fame is continent-wide ... just as yours will become ... and I will bring out a book of your poetry ... and advertise it in The Dawn."
His eloquence on art and life, genius and literature, had enthralled and placated me ... his personal wheedling irritated and angered.
"A book of my poems ... without my name on the title page, perhaps," I cried, impassioned, looking him deep in the eyes. He shifted his glance from me—
I threw my few belongings together.
Everybody, in saying good-bye, gave me a warm hand-clasp of friendship (excepting Pfeiler), including Spalton, who assured me—
"Razorre, you'll be back again ... despite its faults, they all come back to Eos."
"Yes," I responded, sweeping him off his feet by the unexpectedness of my reply, "yes, in spite of all, Eos is a wonderful place ... it has given me something ... in my heart ... in my soul ... which no other place in the world could have given ... and at the time I needed it most ... a feeling for beauty, a fellowship—"
"Razorre," he cut in, moved, "we all have our faults,—God knows you have—mutual forgiveness—" he murmured, pressing my hand warmly again; his great, brown eyes humid with emotion ... whether he was acting, or genuine ... or both ... I could not tell. I didn't care. I departed with the warmth of his benediction over my going.