“How on earth did you guess that!” exclaimed the young man.
“Oh, there is something to be said for realism, after all, and your description gave me all but her name. I might quote a poem I have seen somewhere about the robin—
‘There’s only one bird sings like that—
From Paradise it flew.’”
“I haven’t heard her sing, but she laughed like an angel that day,—usually when she failed to connect with the ball; but she didn’t even smile when the joke was on the other girl,—that’s being a good sportsman! I rather laid myself out praising her game. But if you know her I shall burn my manuscript and let you do the immortalizing.”
“On the other hand, you should go right on and finish your story. Don’t begin to accumulate a litter of half-finished things; you’ll find such stuff depressing when you clean up your desk on rainy days. As to Marian, you’ve never spoken to her?”
“No; but I’ve seen her now and then in the street, and at the theater, and quite a bit at Waupegan last fall. She has plenty of admirers and doesn’t need me.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” the Poet replied absently.
“I must be going,” said the young man, jumping up as the clock chimed six. “You’ve been mighty good to me; I shan’t try to tell you how greatly I appreciate this talk.”
“Well, we haven’t got anywhere; but we’ve made a good beginning. I wish you’d send me half a dozen poems you haven’t printed, in the key of ‘Journeys’ End.’ And come again soon!”