e walked, the light, pale
green of the renewing year about us. But through it all I saw what he
was trying to effect ... to impress me so deeply that I would not only
forgive him for having stolen my poem, but actually thank him, for
having used it--even consider it a mark of honour ... which his
eloquence almost persuaded me to do.

Indeed I saw the true greatness in "John" ... but I also saw and
resented the petty, cruel pilferer--stealing helpless, unknown, youthful
genius for his own--resented it even more because the resources of the
man's nature did not require it of him to descend to such pitiful
expedients. He was rich enough in himself for his own fame and glory.

And why should he rob a young poet of his first fame, of the exquisite
pleasure of seeing his name for the first time in print? ... than which
there is no pleasure more exquisite ... not even the first possession of
a loved woman!...

We had almost returned to the "Artworks" before I tried to let loose on
him ... but even then I could not. Gently I asked him why he had not
affixed my name to my poem.

He looked at me with well-simulated amazement.

"Why, Razorre, I never even thought of it ... we are all a part of one
community of endeavour here ... and we all give our efforts as a
contribution to the Eos Idea ... I have paid you a higher compliment
than merely giving you credit ... instead, I have incorporated your
verse into the very body of our thought and life."

His effrontery struck me silent. I told him sadly that I must now go
away.

"Nonsense," he replied, "this is as good a place in which to develop
your poetic genius as any place in the world. I may say, better. Here
you will find congenial environment, ready appreciation .. come, let us
walk a little further," and we turned aside from the steps of the dining
room and struck down the main street of the town.

"I mean bigger things for you, Razorre, than you can guess.... I will
make you the Eos Poet--look at Gresham, he is the Eos Artist, and, as
such, his fame is continent-wide ... just as yours will become ... and I
will bring out a book of your poetry ... and advertise it in _The
Dawn_."

His eloquence on art and life, genius and literature, had enthralled and
placated me ... his personal wheedling irritated and angered.

"A book of my poems ... without my name on the title page, perhaps," I
cried, impassioned, looking him deep in the eyes. He shifted his glance
from me--