“Listen to this,” Knowles had suddenly exclaimed, taking it out of his pocket.
It concerned a garden of the moon with the fragrance of pale blossoms, a mystic pool, some ancient figures of joy, a quavered Lucidian tune.
“With eerie flute and rhythmic thrum
Of muted strings and beaten drum.”
Stephanie Platow had sat silent, caught by a quality that was akin to her own. She asked to see it, and read it in silence.
“I think it’s charming,” she said.
Thereafter she hovered in the vicinity of Forbes Gurney. Why, she could scarcely say. It was not coquetry. She just drew near, talked to him of stage work and her plays and her ambitions. She sketched him as she had Cowperwood and others, and one day Cowperwood found three studies of Forbes Gurney in her note-book idyllicly done, a note of romantic feeling about them.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s a young poet who comes up to the Players—Forbes Gurney. He’s so charming; he’s so pale and dreamy.”
Cowperwood contemplated the sketches curiously. His eyes clouded.
“Another one of Stephanie’s adherents,” he commented, teasingly. “It’s a long procession I’ve joined. Gardner Knowles, Lane Cross, Bliss Bridge, Forbes Gurney.”