of “Hospital Sketches.”  They were simple poems, of light and color, and romance and adventure.  “Sea Lyrics,” he called them, and he judged them to be the best work he had yet done.  There were thirty, and he completed them in a month, doing one a day after having done his regular day’s work on fiction, which day’s work was the equivalent to a week’s work of the average successful writer.  The toil meant nothing to him.  It was not toil.  He was finding speech, and all the beauty and wonder that had been pent for years behind his inarticulate lips was now pouring forth in a wild and virile flood.

He showed the “Sea Lyrics” to no one, not even to the editors.  He had become distrustful of editors.  But it was not distrust that prevented him from submitting the “Lyrics.”  They were so beautiful to him that he was impelled to save them to share with Ruth in some glorious, far-off time when he would dare to read to her what he had written.  Against that time he kept them with him, reading them aloud, going over them until he knew them by heart.

He lived every moment of his waking hours, and he lived in his sleep, his subjective mind rioting through his five hours of surcease and combining the thoughts and events of the day into grotesque and impossible marvels.  In reality, he never rested, and a weaker body or a less firmly poised brain would have been prostrated in a general break-down.  His late afternoon calls on Ruth were rarer now, for June was approaching, when she would take her degree and finish with the university.  Bachelor of Arts!—­when he thought of her degree, it seemed she fled beyond him faster than he could pursue.

One afternoon a week she gave to him, and arriving late, he usually stayed for dinner and for music afterward.  Those were his red-letter days.  The atmosphere of the house, in such contrast with that in which he lived, and the mere nearness to her, sent him forth each time with a firmer grip on his resolve to climb the heights.  In spite of the beauty in him, and the aching desire to create, it was for her that he struggled.  He was a lover first and always.  All other things he subordinated to love.

Greater than his adventure in the world of thought was his love-adventure.  The world itself was not so amazing because of the atoms and molecules that composed it according to the propulsions of irresistible force; what made it amazing was the fact that Ruth lived in it.  She was the most amazing thing he had ever known, or dreamed, or guessed.

But he was oppressed always by her remoteness.  She was so far from him, and he did not know how to approach her.  He had been a success with girls and women in his own class; but he had never loved any of them, while he did love her, and besides, she was not merely of another class.  His very love elevated her above all classes.  She was a being apart, so far apart that he did not know how to draw near to her as a lover should draw near.