But as he came hoping up the street, another already sat beside Julia, sharing with her the wicker settee on the dim porch, and this was the horn-rimmed young poet.  Newland had, as usual, a new poem with him; and as others had proved of late that they could sit on Julia’s veranda as long as he could, he had seized the first opportunity to familiarize her with this latest work.

The veranda was dark, and to go indoors to the light might have involved too close a juxtaposition to peculiar old Mr. Atwater who was in the library; but the resourceful Newland, foreseeing everything, had brought with him a small pocket flashlight to illumine his manuscript.  “It’s vers libre, of course,” he said as he moved the flashlight over the sheets of scribbled paper.  “I think I told you I was beginning to give all the old forms up.  It’s the one new movement, and I felt I ought to master it.”

“Of course,” she said sympathetically, though with a little nervousness.  “Be just a wee bit careful with the flashlight—­about turning it toward the window, I mean—­and read in your nice low voice.  I always like poetry best when it’s almost whispered.  I think it sounds more musical that way, I mean.”

Newland obeyed.  His voice was hushed and profoundly appreciative of the music in itself and in his poem, as he read: 

          “I—­And Love! 
    Lush white lilies line the pool
    Like laces limned on looking-glasses! 
    I tread the lilies underfoot,
    Careless how they love me! 
      Still white maidens woo me,
      Win me not! 
        But thou! 
        Thou art a cornflower
    Sapphire-eyed! 
          I bend! 
        Cornflower, I ask a question. 
    O flower, speak——­”

Julia spoke.  “I’m afraid,” she said, while Newland’s spirit filled with a bitterness extraordinary even in an interrupted poet;—­“I’m afraid it’s Mr. Dill coming up the walk.  We’ll have to postpone——­” She rose and went to the steps to greet the approaching guest.  “How nice of you to come!”

Noble, remaining on the lowest step, clung to her hand in a fever.  “Nice to come!” he said hoarsely.  “It’s eight days—­eight days—­eight days since——­”

“Mr. Sanders is here,” she said.  “It’s so dark on this big veranda people can hardly see each other.  Come up and sit with us.  I don’t have to introduce you two men to each other.”

She did not, indeed.  They said “H’lo, Dill” and “H’lo Sanders” in a manner of such slighting superiority that only the utmost familiarity could have bred a contempt so magnificent.  Then, when the three were seated, Mr. Sanders thought well to add:  “How’s rent collecting these days, Dill?  Still hustling around among those darky shanties over in Bucktown?”

In the dark Noble moved convulsively, but contrived to affect a light laugh, or a sound meant for one, as he replied, in a voice not entirely under control:  “How’s the ole poetry, Sanders?”