“Have you ever read the sonnets of George Santayana?...  I know most of them by heart ... let me quote you his best ...

  ’O world, thou choosest not the better part! 
  It is not wisdom to be only wise,
  And on the inward vision close the eyes,
  But it is wisdom to believe the heart. 
  Columbus found a world, and had no chart
  Save one that faith deciphered in the skies
  To trust the soul’s invincible surmise
  Was all his science and his only art. 
  Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine
  That lights the pathway but one step ahead
  Across a void of mystery and dread. 
  Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine
  By which alone the mortal heart is led
  Unto the thinking of the thought divine!’”

* * * * *

“I wish I had written that!” I said, in a hushed, awed voice, after a moment’s silence....

* * * * *

“Now kiss me good-night and go to your tent ...  I feel restless, troubled in spirit, to-night,” she said, continuing: 

“Perhaps I have been too harsh with Penton....

“He is steering on a chartless sea with no compass....

“No wonder he, and all radicals and pioneers in human thought, blunder ridiculously....

“The conservative world has its charts, its course well mapped out....

“I suppose I am not strong enough, big enough, for him.”

“Hush! now it is you who’re just talking!” I replied.

“You’re jealous!”

“By God, yes.  I am jealous, though I suppose I ought to be ashamed of it.”

* * * * *

She sat in bed, propped up with pillows.  She had been reading Shakespeare’s sonnets aloud to me.  The big green-shaded reading lamp cast a dim light that pervaded the room.

She reached out both arms to me, the wide sleeves falling back from them, and showing their feminine whiteness....

I sat down beside her, caught her to me, kissed her till she was breathless....

“There ... there ... please! Please!”

“What! you’re not tiring of my kisses?”

“No, dearest boy, but I have a curious feeling, I tell you ... maybe we’re being watched....”

“Nonsense ... he believes I told him the truth.”

And I caught her in my arms again, half-reclining on the bed.

“Sh!” she flung me off with a sudden impulse of frightened strength, “I hear someone.”

“It’s only the wind.”

“Quick!... my God!”—­

* * * * *

I snatched up a volume of Keats.  It fell open at “St. Agnes Eve.”  I hurled myself into a chair ... gathering my breath I began aloud, as naturally as I could—­

  “St. Agnes’ Eve! ah, bitter chill it was;
  The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold—­”

At that very instant, Penton burst in at the door.