"Baker has returned my poems."
"Oh!..."
"Yes—there they are."
He pointed to the grate, where one or two fragments of charred paper showed among the cinders.
She bowed her face over his.
"I thought you were happy when I came."
"Happy! of course I was happy when you came. Janey, if you come to me on my death-bed, I'll be happy—if you come to me in hell, I'll sing for joy."
"Did Baker write about the poems?"
"No—only a damned printed slip; he doesn't think 'em worth a letter. It's all over with me, Janey—with us both. I'll never be good for anything—I'm a rotter, a waster, a Spring Poet. We're both done for—our love isn't any more use."
"Can't you hope, dear?"