“And now you’ve won too much of the baser coinage of fame, of a kind that a poet should never have.”

“I have a poem with me ... one on the subject of what Christ wrote on the sand—­after which he bade the woman go and sin no more ... and he who was without sin should cast the first stone.”

Dr. Ward looked over the half-moons of his triple glasses at me ... he reached for the poem and read it.

“Yes, it’s a fine poem, with that uniqueness in occasional lines, that occasional touch of power, that marks your worst effusions, Mr. Gregory!... but,” paused he, “we do not allow the Woman Taken in Adultery in the columns of the Independent.”

“Well,” I shot back, pleased with myself at the retort I was making, “well, I’m mighty glad Christ didn’t keep her out of the pages of the New Testament, Dr. Ward!”

He barely smiled.  He fixed me with a steadfast look of concern.

“Are you still with—­with Mrs. Baxter?”

“Yes—­since you ask it.”

“The sooner you put that woman out of your life the better for you.”

“Dr. Ward—­one moment!... understand that no woman I love can be spoken of as ‘that woman’ in my presence—­if you were not an old man!—­” I faltered, choking with resentment.

“Now, now, my dear boy,” he replied very gently, “I am older than you say ...  I am a very, very old man ... and I know life—­”

“But do you know the woman you speak of?”

“I have met Mrs. Baxter casually with her husband several times.”  He stopped short.  He paused, gave a gesture of acquiescence.

“Oh, come, Mr. Gregory, you’re right ... quite right ...  I had no right whatever to speak to you as I have—­

“But please interpret it as my serious concern over your career as a poet ... it seems such a pity ... you had such a good start.”

“You mean?—­” I began, and halted.

“Precisely ...  I mean that for the next two or three years all the reputable magazines will not dare consider even a masterpiece from your hands.”

“In other words, if Shelley were alive to-day and were the same Shelley, he would be presented with a like boycott?”

“If his manner of living came out in the papers—­yes.”

“And Francois Villon?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I’m in good company then, am I not?”

“You should thank me for being frank with you.”

“I do thank you ... that explains why the atmosphere up at the office of the National was as cold as the refrigerator-box of a meat car, when I was up there an hour ago ... but they were not as frank as you ... they acted like a company of undertakers officiating at my funeral.”

* * * * *

I was glad to find myself back in my little cottage, that same night—­back in my little cottage, and in the arms of the woman who was everything to me, no matter if they said she spelled the ruination of my career.