In the meantime Vanna Andrews was daily seen driving down the streets with Billy Conway, whose father was Governor of a Western State ... as I saw her going by in her fragile beauty, I bowed my head to her, and in return came a slight nod of mere, passing acquaintanceship.
I made friends with Billy, as I had done with Vanna's homely room-mate ... who thought I was becoming interested in her—because I often spoke in Vanna's dispraise, to throw her off the track, and to encourage her to speak at greater length of the woman I loved and worshipped from a-far.
Now I sought through Billy Conway a nearer opportunity for her favour. He approached me one day while we were out on the football field, practicing formations. I was on the scrub team—whose duty it was to help knock the big team into shape.
"Johnnie, you know Vanna, don't you?... Vanna Andrews, the art student."
"Slightly," I concealed, thanking God I hadn't blushed straightway at the mention of her name ... "—met her when I posed for Professor Grant's classes."
"She's a beaut, ain't she?"
"Everybody thinks so."
"Don't you?"
"She'd be perfect, if she weren't so thin," I answered, almost smothering from the thumping of my heart.
"I've often wondered what makes you so cold toward the girls ... when you write poetry ... poets are supposed to be romantic."