himself he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little thrills crawled
up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter. Like silver, he
thought to himself, like tinkling silver bells; and on the instant, and
for an instant, he was transported to a far land, where under pink cherry
blossoms, he smoked a cigarette and listened to the bells of the peaked
pagoda calling straw-sandalled devotees to worship.

"Yes, thank you," she said. "Swinburne fails, when all is said, because
he is, well, indelicate. There are many of his poems that should never
be read. Every line of the really great poets is filled with beautiful
truth, and calls to all that is high and noble in the human. Not a line
of the great poets can be spared without impoverishing the world by that
much."

"I thought it was great," he said hesitatingly, "the little I read. I
had no idea he was such a--a scoundrel. I guess that crops out in his
other books."

"There are many lines that could be spared from the book you were
reading," she said, her voice primly firm and dogmatic.

"I must 'a' missed 'em," he announced. "What I read was the real goods.
It was all lighted up an' shining, an' it shun right into me an' lighted
me up inside, like the sun or a searchlight. That's the way it landed on
me, but I guess I ain't up much on poetry, miss."

He broke off lamely. He was confused, painfully conscious of his
inarticulateness. He had felt the bigness and glow of life in what he
had read, but his speech was inadequate. He could not express what he
felt, and to himself he likened himself to a sailor, in a strange ship,