mrs. redfield, marian, and marjorie were back in town by the first of july. the sisters had taken a small house on a convenient side[162] street and were facing their to-morrows confidently. mrs. redfield was to open a kindergarten in october and marian was to teach latin in a private school. fulton still clung to the manuscript of his romance for the revision it constantly invited. since returning to town he had seen the poet frequently, and had kept that gentleman informed of the movements and plans of mrs. redfield and marian.

the poet wandered into the “chronicle” office one humid afternoon and found the reporter writing an interview with a visiting statesman. on days when every one else complained bitterly of the heat, the poet was apparently the coolest person in town.

“i hope you have enough raisins in your pudding to spare a few,” he remarked. and then, as fulton groped for his meaning, he drew an envelope from his pocket. “i took the liberty of purloining a few of those things you gave me a month ago before i passed them on to[163] marian and here’s the ‘manhattan magazine’ kindly inclosing a check for fifty dollars for four of them. i suggested to the editor that they ought to be kept together and printed on one page. if you don’t like the arrangement, you can send back the check. i’d suggest, though, that you exchange it for gold and carry the coins in your pocket for a day or two. the thrill of the first real money you get for poetry comes only once. of course, if you’re not satisfied and want to send it back—”

he feigned to ignore the surprise and delight with which the young man stared at the slip of paper in his hand while he tried to grasp this astonishing news.

“send it back!” he blurted, breaking in upon the poet’s further comments on the joy of a first acceptance. “send it back! why, they’ve sent me back dozens of better pieces! and if it hadn’t been for you—why,” he cried, with mounting elation, “this is the grandest thing[164] that ever happened to me! if i wasn’t afraid of getting arrested i’d yell!”

“of course,” continued the poet calmly, “i had to tell the magazine people that you made your sketches from life—and that they might get into a libel suit by printing them. i suppose you’re hardly in a position to ask miss agnew’s leave to print! you haven’t been seeing much of her, of course!”

an imaginary speck of mud on his umbrella engaged the poet’s attention at the moment so that he missed the color that deepened in fulton’s face.

“oh, i’ve seen a good deal of miss agnew,” he confessed, “both at the lake and since i’ve come home. we do some tennis together every afternoon i can get off. i suppose there might be some question as to using the poems without asking her about it. very likely no one would ever guess that she inspired them—and yet i have a guilty feeling—”

[165]“you know, of course; and she, being, we will say, a person of average intelligence, knows, too, perfectly well. there you have it—a very delicate question! and the fact that she doesn’t care for such foolishness as poetry and romance makes a difference. you’ve got to consider that.”

his insinuations had been of the mildest, but his keen scrutiny marked the flash of resentment in fulton’s eyes.

“well, she was very nice about my putting her into the story. it did rather stagger her at first—to know that i had been worshiping from afar, and grinding rhymes about her for a year without ever knowing her.”

“the enchantment wasn’t all a matter of distance, i hope,” the poet persisted. “i wasn’t quite sure about her. she struck me as being a little bitter; seemed to think life a string of wrong numbers and the girl at the exchange stupid and cross. i should be sorry if you got[166] any such notions from her; it couldn’t fail to make your ideal totter on its pedestal. it would be rough to find that your pomona, in shaking the boughs in the orchard, was looking for an apple with a worm-mark in its damask cheek. it would argue for an unhappy nature. we must insist that our goddesses have a cheerful outlook; no grumbling when it rains on the picnic!”

“well,” fulton admitted, “she did seem a little disdainful and rather generally skeptical about things at first; but i met that by rather overemphasizing the general good that’s lying around everywhere, most of which i got from your books. her father had lost his money, and her sister’s troubles couldn’t fail to spoil some of her illusions; but she’s going into her school-teaching with the right spirit. she’s been reading the manuscript of my story and has made some bully suggestions. i’ve rewritten one of the chapters and improved it vastly[167] because she pointed out a place where i’d changed the key a little—i must have been tired when i wrote it. i’d rather got off the romantic note i started with and there were a dozen dead, pallid pages right in the middle of the thing.”

“she was afraid the romantic element flagged there?” asked the poet carelessly.

“well, i suppose that’s about what it came to. my heroine and the hero had a tiff; and i was giving the girl the best of it and making him out unreasonable; and she said she thought that wasn’t fair; that the trouble was all the girl’s fault. she thought the girl shouldn’t have been so peevish over a small matter when the young orchardist had shown himself chivalrous and generous. it seemed to be miss agnew’s idea that when you go in for romance you ought to carry through with it.”

the poet’s attention seemed to wander, and he suppressed a smile with difficulty. he then[168] began searching his pockets for something, and not finding it, remarked:—

“people who never change their minds aren’t interesting; they really are not.”

“well, i’m glad enough to change mine,” replied fulton, not knowing what was in the poet’s mind; “and i hope i’ll never get to a place where i can’t take criticism in the right spirit.”

“oh, i wasn’t thinking of you,” remarked the poet.

he rose and moved quickly toward the door, as though to escape from fulton’s renewed thanks for his kind offices in disposing of the verses.

“don’t work yourself to death,” he warned fulton in the hall. “i’m glad marian’s influence is so beneficent. when your proof comes, hold it a day or two: there’s always the chance of bettering a thing.”