* * * * *

The night of the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream I shall never forget ...  Hildreth as Titania in her green tights ...  I sat in the back (she would not allow me in the front because it might fluster her, she pleaded) and enjoyed a sense of blissful ownership in her, as she glided about, through the Shakespearean scenes ...—­such a sense of ownership that it ran through my veins with a full feeling, possessed my entire body....

Who was this little, alien man, Penton Baxter, who also dared claim her possession!...

Nonchalantly and with an emotion of inner triumph I let him walk homeward with Hildreth, while I paced along with Ruth and Darrie.

Let him congratulate her now on her triumph ... that she had had, as Titania, there under the wide heaven of stars, in our outdoor theatre ... in the midst of the Chinese lanterns that swayed in the slight breaths of summer air....

Later on, when she was warm in my arms, I would congratulate her ... —­tell her she was greater than Bernhardt ... than Duse herself!... tell her every incredible thing that lovers hold as mere, commonplace truths.

* * * * *

Jones had acquitted himself wonderfully as Bottom ... roaring like any suckling dove ... putting real philosophic comedy in his part ... to the applause of even the elder Grahame, who, to do him credit, was not such a bad sport, after all.

* * * * *

“Johnnie, we are having a sing to-night ... there’ll be a full moon up.  I have informed the committee that you will read a few of your poems by the camp-fire.”

“—­the first time I ever heard of it,” I replied, concealing my pride in the invitation, under show of being disgruntled....

That was Penton’s way, arranging things first, telling you afterward.

“But you will do it?  I have said you would!”

“Yes, Penton, if you wish me to!”

* * * * *

Hildreth was always insistent on my strength ... my greyhound length of limb, my huge chest ... she stood up and pounded on my chest once....

“Oh, why do I pick out a poor poet, and not a millionaire, for a lover!”

* * * * *

There grew up between us a myth ... we were living in cave-days ... she was my cave-woman ...  I was her cave-man....

As I came to her in my bath-robe (for now, bolder with seeming immunity, we threw caution aside, and met often in the little house)—­

As I came to her in my bath-robe, unshaven, once ... she called me her Paphnutius ... and she was my Thais ... and she told me Anatole France’s story of Thais.

But the cave-legend of our love ... in a previous incarnation ... was what spelled her most ... she doted on strength ... cruel, sheer, brute strength....