* * * * *

But this was after several years. Long before the divorce was granted
John and Dorothy were aware of a tangible fruit of their love.... I had
often wondered why the Master so ardently, so often, wrote eloquently in
defense of the superior qualities of illegitimate children....

Dorothy bore their child ... a girl ... and went away to teach in a
smart school somewhere in the East, under an assumed name....

Now, after many years, Spalton and she married.

* * * * *

I saw in the sitting room a wonderful girl. She had shining, abundant
hair, and a face rendered superlatively beautiful by the glowing of
vivacity, understanding, feminine vitality behind it and through it,
like a lamp held up within. She was absorbed in the new exhibit of
Gresham's that hung on the walls of the guest room ... she wore a short,
bouncing, riding skirt, and carried a quirt in her hand.

I walked up to her, fascinated. Without letting her know who I was I
quoted Poe's _To Helen_ to her. She stood, smiling sweetly, as if it
were the most usual thing in the world, to have a lean, wild-faced
stranger address her with a poem.

"That's the way I feel about you!" I ended.

She gave a lovely laugh ... held out both her hands, dropping the quirt
on the floor ... took my hands and leaned back gaily, like a child.

"Oh, I know who you are ... you're Razorre ... father wrote me a lot
about you ... when I lived East ... you were one of his pet 'nuts'!"

We sat there and conversed a long time. She talked of Socrates and Plato
as if she had broken bread with them ... she discussed science, history,
art as if wisdom and understanding were nearer her desire than anything
else....

She was the child of "John" and Dorothy.

* * * * *

Again Spalton asked me to stay, "we need a poet for Eos!"

But I insisted that I must go on and acquire a college education ...
which he maintained would be a hindrance, not a help--"they will iron
you out, and make you a decent member of society--and then, Razorre, God
help the poet in you ... poets and artists should never be decent ...
only the true son of Ishmael can ever write or paint," he waved.

* * * * *

There came to the artworkers one day a young Southern woman, a six
months' widow ... she was gentle and lily-coloured and lovely. She had
great, swimming, blue eyes, a