'I—I—what was that? Oh—tired? Why, I don't know. Sorta.'
Her hand slipped down his forearm, within easy reach of his hand; but he was unaware.
'I'm frightfully excited,' he said, brightening. 'If you knew what this meant to me! Feeling like this. The Power—but you wouldn't know what that meant. Only it lifts me up. I know I'm all right now. It's been an awful two years. You've no idea. Drudgery. Plugging along. But I'm up again now. I can do it any time I want. I'm free of this dam' town. They can't hold me back now.'
'You'll do big things,' she said, a mournful note in her voice.
'I know. I feel that.'
And now she stopped short. In a shadow.
'What is it?' he asked casually. 'What's the matter?'
She glanced at his face; then down.
'Do you think you'll write—a poem?' she asked almost sullenly.
'Maybe. I don't know. It's queer—you get all stirred up inside, and then something comes. You can't tell what it's going to be. It's as if it came from outside yourself. You know. Spooky.'