shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men,
being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never
had men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. She
stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument
slipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it was
strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her
of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her
instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her to
hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another
world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line
of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all
too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She
was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she
was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.
“As I was saying – what was I saying?” She broke off abruptly and
laughed merrily at her predicament.
“You was saying that this man Swinburne failed bein’ a great poet
because – an’ that was as far as you got, miss,” he prompted, while
to himself he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little thrills
crawled up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter. Like
silver, he thought to himself, like tinkling silver bells; and on
the instant, and for an instant, he was transported to a far land,
where under pink cherry blossoms, he smoked a cigarette and
listened to the bells of the peaked pagoda calling straw-sandalled
devotees to worship.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “Swinburne fails, when all is said,
because he is, well, indelicate. There are many of his poems that
should never be read. Every line of the really great poets is
filled with beautiful truth, and calls to all that is high and
noble in the human. Not a line of the great poets can be spared
without impoverishing the world by that much.”
“I thought it was great,” he said hesitatingly, “the little I read.
I had no idea he was such a – a scoundrel. I guess that crops out
in his other books.”
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“There are many lines that could be spared from the book you were
reading,” she said, her voice primly firm and dogmatic.
“I must ‘a’ missed ’em,” he announced. “What I read was the real
goods. It was all lighted up an’ shining, an’ it shun right into
me an’ lighted me up inside, like the sun or a searchlight. That’s
the way it landed on me, but I guess I ain’t up much on poetry,
miss.”
He broke off lamely. He was confused, painfully conscious of his
inarticulateness. He had felt the bigness and glow of life in what
he had read, but his speech was inadequate. He could not express
what he felt, and to himself he likened himself to a sailor, in a
strange ship, on a dark night, groping about in the unfamiliar
running rigging. Well, he decided, it was up to him to get
acquainted in this new world. He had never seen anything that he
couldn’t get the hang of when he wanted to and it was about time
for him to want to learn to talk the things that were inside of him
so that she could understand. SHE was bulking large on his
horizon.
“Now Longfellow – ” she was saying.
“Yes, I’ve read ‘m,” he broke in impulsively, spurred on to exhibit
and make the most of his little store of book knowledge, desirous
of showing her that he was not wholly a stupid clod. “‘The Psalm
of Life,’ ‘Excelsior,’ an’ . . . I guess that’s all.”
She nodded her head and smiled, and he felt, somehow, that her
smile was tolerant, pitifully tolerant. He was a fool to attempt
to make a pretence that way. That Longfellow chap most likely had
written countless books of poetry.
“Excuse me, miss, for buttin’ in that way. I guess the real facts
is that I don’t know nothin’ much about such things. It ain’t in
my class. But I’m goin’ to make it in my class.”
It sounded like a threat. His voice was determined, his eyes were
flashing, the lines of his face had grown harsh. And to her it
seemed that the angle of his jaw had changed; its pitch had become
unpleasantly aggressive. At the same time a wave of intense
virility seemed to surge out from him and impinge upon her.
“I think you could make it in – in your class,” she finished with a
laugh. “You are very strong.”
Her gaze rested for a moment on the muscular neck, heavy corded,
almost bull-like, bronzed by the sun, spilling over with rugged
health and strength. And though he sat there, blushing and humble,
again she felt drawn to him. She was surprised by a wanton thought
that rushed into her mind. It seemed to her that if she could lay
her two hands upon that neck that all its strength and vigor would
flow out to her. She was shocked by this thought. It seemed to
reveal to her an undreamed depravity in her nature. Besides,
strength to her was a gross and brutish thing. Her ideal of
masculine beauty had always been slender gracefulness. Yet the
thought still persisted. It bewildered her that she should desire
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to place her hands on that sunburned neck. In truth, she was far
from robust, and the need of her body and mind was for strength.
But she did not know it. She knew only that no man had ever
affected her before as this one had, who shocked her from moment to
moment with his awful grammar.
“Yes, I ain’t no invalid,” he said. “When it comes down to hard-
pan, I can digest scrap-iron. But just now I’ve got dyspepsia.
Most of what you was sayin’ I can’t digest. Never trained that
way, you see. I like books and poetry, and what time I’ve had I’ve
read ’em, but I’ve never thought about ’em the way you have.
That’s why I can’t talk about ’em. I’m like a navigator adrift on
a strange sea without chart or compass. Now I want to get my
bearin’s. Mebbe you can put me right. How did you learn all this
you’ve ben talkin’?”
“By going to school, I fancy, and by studying,” she answered.
“I went to school when I was a kid,” he began to object.
“Yes; but I mean high school, and lectures, and the university.”
“You’ve gone to the university?” he demanded in frank amazement.
He felt that she had become remoter from him by at least a million
miles.
“I’m going there now. I’m taking special courses in English.”
He did not know what “English” meant, but he made a mental note of
that item of ignorance and passed on.
“How long would I have to study before I could go to the
university?” he asked.
She beamed encouragement upon his desire for knowledge, and said:
“That depends upon how much studying you have already done. You
have never attended high school? Of course not. But did you
finish grammar school?”
“I had two years to run, when I left,” he answered. “But I was
always honorably promoted at school.”
The next moment, angry with himself for the boast, he had gripped
the arms of the chair so savagely that every finger-end was
stinging. At the same moment he became aware that a woman was
entering the room. He saw the girl leave her chair and trip
swiftly across the floor to the newcomer. They kissed each other,
and, with arms around each other’s waists, they advanced toward
him. That must be her mother, he thought. She was a tall, blond
woman, slender, and stately, and beautiful. Her gown was what he
might expect in such a house. His eyes delighted in the graceful
lines of it. She and her dress together reminded him of women on
the stage. Then he remembered seeing similar grand ladies and
gowns entering the London theatres while he stood and watched and
the policemen shoved him back into the drizzle beyond the awning.
Next his mind leaped to the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, where, too,
from the sidewalk, he had seen grand ladies. Then the city and the
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harbor of Yokohama, in a thousand pictures, began flashing before
his eyes. But he swiftly dismissed the kaleidoscope of memory,
oppressed by the urgent need of the present. He knew that he must
stand up to be introduced, and he struggled painfully to his feet,
where he stood with trousers bagging at the knees, his arms loose-
hanging and ludicrous, his face set hard for the impending ordeal.
CHAPTER II
The process of getting into the dining room was a nightmare to him.