forgot the dinner-bell after its first summons, and went on until Annie
knocked at his door, dispatched to summon him to the meal. There was in
Hector, indeed, as a small part of the world came by-and-by to know, the
making of a real poet, for such there are in the world at all
times--yea, even now--although they may not be recognized, or even
intended to ripen in the course of one human season. I think Annie
herself was one of such--so full was she of receptive and responsive
faculty in the same kind, and I remain in doubt whether the genuine
enjoyment of verse be not a fuller sign of the presence of what is most
valuable in it than even some power of producing it. For Hector, I
imagine, it gave strong proof of his being a poet indeed that, when he
opened the door to her knock, the appearance of Annie herself, instead
of giving him a thrill of pleasure, occasioned him a little annoyance by
the evanishment of a just culminating train of thought into the vast
and seething void, into which he gazed after it in vain. And Annie
herself, although all the time in Hector's thought, revealed herself
only, after the custom of celestials, at the very moment of her
disappearance; her message delivered, she went back to her duties at the
table; and then first Hector woke to the knowledge that she had been at
his door, and was there no more. During the last few days he had been
gradually approaching the resolve to keep silence no longer, but be bold
and tell Annie how full his heart was of her. One moment he might have
done so; one moment more, and he could not!

He followed close upon her steps, but not a word with her was possible,
and it seemed to Hector that she sped from him like a very wraith to
avoid his addressing her. Had she, then, he asked himself, some dim
suspicion of his feelings toward her, or was she but making haste from a
sense of propriety?