from the sun and looked down and loved him and wondered at his lordly carelessness of their love.  To rest his head in a girl’s lap had been the easiest thing in the world until now, and now he found Ruth’s lap inaccessible and impossible.  Yet it was right here, in his reticence, that the strength of his wooing lay.  It was because of this reticence that he never alarmed her.  Herself fastidious and timid, she never awakened to the perilous trend of their intercourse.  Subtly and unaware she grew toward him and closer to him, while he, sensing the growing closeness, longed to dare but was afraid.

Once he dared, one afternoon, when he found her in the darkened living room with a blinding headache.

“Nothing can do it any good,” she had answered his inquiries.  “And besides, I don’t take headache powders.  Doctor Hall won’t permit me.”

“I can cure it, I think, and without drugs,” was Martin’s answer.  “I am not sure, of course, but I’d like to try.  It’s simply massage.  I learned the trick first from the Japanese.  They are a race of masseurs, you know.  Then I learned it all over again with variations from the Hawaiians.  They call it lomi-lomi.  It can accomplish most of the things drugs accomplish and a few things that drugs can’t.”

Scarcely had his hands touched her head when she sighed deeply.

“That is so good,” she said.

She spoke once again, half an hour later, when she asked, “Aren’t you tired?”

The question was perfunctory, and she knew what the answer would be.  Then she lost herself in drowsy contemplation of the soothing balm of his strength:  Life poured from the ends of his fingers, driving the pain before it, or so it seemed to her, until with the easement of pain, she fell asleep and he stole away.

She called him up by telephone that evening to thank him.

“I slept until dinner,” she said.  “You cured me completely, Mr. Eden, and I don’t know how to thank you.”

He was warm, and bungling of speech, and very happy, as he replied to her, and there was dancing in his mind, throughout the telephone conversation, the memory of Browning and of sickly Elizabeth Barrett.  What had been done could be done again, and he, Martin Eden, could do it and would do it for Ruth Morse.  He went back to his room and to the volume of Spencer’s “Sociology” lying open on the bed.  But he could not read.  Love tormented him and overrode his will, so that, despite all determination, he found himself at the little ink-stained table.  The sonnet he composed that night was the first of a love-cycle of fifty sonnets which was completed within two months.  He had the “Love-sonnets from the Portuguese” in mind as he wrote, and he wrote under the best conditions for great work, at a climacteric of living, in the throes of his own sweet love-madness.