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"
It
sounded
as
if
you
were
praying
,
"
she
said
bravely
,
but
she
felt
herself
inside
to
be
withering
and
shrinking
.
It
was
the
first
time
she
had
heard
an
oath
from
the
lips
of
a
man
she
knew
,
and
she
was
shocked
,
not
merely
as
a
matter
of
principle
and
training
,
but
shocked
in
spirit
by
this
rough
blast
of
life
in
the
garden
of
her
sheltered
maidenhood
.
But
she
forgave
,
and
with
surprise
at
the
ease
of
her
forgiveness
.
Somehow
it
was
not
so
difficult
to
forgive
him
anything
.
He
had
not
had
a
chance
to
be
as
other
men
,
and
he
was
trying
so
hard
,
and
succeeding
,
too
.
It
never
entered
her
head
that
there
could
be
any
other
reason
for
her
being
kindly
disposed
toward
him
.
She
was
tenderly
disposed
toward
him
,
but
she
did
not
know
it
.
She
had
no
way
of
knowing
it
.
The
placid
poise
of
twenty
-
four
years
without
a
single
love
affair
did
not
fit
her
with
a
keen
perception
of
her
own
feelings
,
and
she
who
had
never
warmed
to
actual
love
was
unaware
that
she
was
warming
now
.
Martin
went
back
to
his
pearl
-
diving
article
,
which
would
have
been
finished
sooner
if
it
had
not
been
broken
in
upon
so
frequently
by
his
attempts
to
write
poetry
.
His
poems
were
love
poems
,
inspired
by
Ruth
,
but
they
were
never
completed
.
Not
in
a
day
could
he
learn
to
chant
in
noble
verse
.
Rhyme
and
metre
and
structure
were
serious
enough
in
themselves
,
but
there
was
,
over
and
beyond
them
,
an
intangible
and
evasive
something
that
he
caught
in
all
great
poetry
,
but
which
he
could
not
catch
and
imprison
in
his
own
.
It
was
the
elusive
spirit
of
poetry
itself
that
he
sensed
and
sought
after
but
could
not
capture
.
It
seemed
a
glow
to
him
,
a
warm
and
trailing
vapor
,
ever
beyond
his
reaching
,
though
sometimes
he
was
rewarded
by
catching
at
shreds
of
it
and
weaving
them
into
phrases
that
echoed
in
his
brain
with
haunting
notes
or
drifted
across
his
vision
in
misty
wafture
of
unseen
beauty
.
It
was
baffling
.
He
ached
with
desire
to
express
and
could
but
gibber
prosaically
as
everybody
gibbered
.
He
read
his
fragments
aloud
.
The
metre
marched
along
on
perfect
feet
,
and
the
rhyme
pounded
a
longer
and
equally
faultless
rhythm
,
but
the
glow
and
high
exaltation
that
he
felt
within
were
lacking
.
He
could
not
understand
,
and
time
and
again
,
in
despair
,
defeated
and
depressed
,
he
returned
to
his
article
.
Prose
was
certainly
an
easier
medium
.
Following
the
"
Pearl
-
diving
,
"
he
wrote
an
article
on
the
sea
as
a
career
,
another
on
turtle
-
catching
,
and
a
third
on
the
northeast
trades
.
Then
he
tried
,
as
an
experiment
,
a
short
story
,
and
before
he
broke
his
stride
he
had
finished
six
short
stories
and
despatched
them
to
various
magazines
.
He
wrote
prolifically
,
intensely
,
from
morning
till
night
,
and
late
at
night
,
except
when
he
broke
off
to
go
to
the
reading
-
room
,
draw
books
from
the
library
,
or
to
call
on
Ruth
.
He
was
profoundly
happy
.
Life
was
pitched
high
.
He
was
in
a
fever
that
never
broke
.
The
joy
of
creation
that
is
supposed
to
belong
to
the
gods
was
his
.
All
the
life
about
him
—
the
odors
of
stale
vegetables
and
soapsuds
,
the
slatternly
form
of
his
sister
,
and
the
jeering
face
of
Mr
.
Higginbotham
—
was
a
dream
.
The
real
world
was
in
his
mind
,
and
the
stories
he
wrote
were
so
many
pieces
of
reality
out
of
his
mind
.
The
days
were
too
short
.
There
was
so
much
he
wanted
to
study
.
He
cut
his
sleep
down
to
five
hours
and
found
that
he
could
get
along
upon
it
.
He
tried
four
hours
and
a
half
,
and
regretfully
came
back
to
five
.
He
could
joyfully
have
spent
all
his
waking
hours
upon
any
one
of
his
pursuits
.
It
was
with
regret
that
he
ceased
from
writing
to
study
,
that
he
ceased
from
study
to
go
to
the
library
,
that
he
tore
himself
away
from
that
chart
-
room
of
knowledge
or
from
the
magazines
in
the
reading
-
room
that
were
filled
with
the
secrets
of
writers
who
succeeded
in
selling
their
wares
.
It
was
like
severing
heart
strings
,
when
he
was
with
Ruth
,
to
stand
up
and
go
;
and
he
scorched
through
the
dark
streets
so
as
to
get
home
to
his
books
at
the
least
possible
expense
of
time
.
And
hardest
of
all
was
it
to
shut
up
the
algebra
or
physics
,
put
note
-
book
and
pencil
aside
,
and
close
his
tired
eyes
in
sleep
.
He
hated
the
thought
of
ceasing
to
live
,
even
for
so
short
a
time
,
and
his
sole
consolation
was
that
the
alarm
clock
was
set
five
hours
ahead
.
He
would
lose
only
five
hours
anyway
,
and
then
the
jangling
bell
would
jerk
him
out
of
unconsciousness
and
he
would
have
before
him
another
glorious
day
of
nineteen
hours
.
In
the
meantime
the
weeks
were
passing
,
his
money
was
ebbing
low
,
and
there
was
no
money
coming
in
.
A
month
after
he
had
mailed
it
,
the
adventure
serial
for
boys
was
returned
to
him
by
The
Youth
’
s
Companion
.
The
rejection
slip
was
so
tactfully
worded
that
he
felt
kindly
toward
the
editor
.
But
he
did
not
feel
so
kindly
toward
the
editor
of
the
San
Francisco
Examiner
.
After
waiting
two
whole
weeks
,
Martin
had
written
to
him
.
A
week
later
he
wrote
again
.
At
the
end
of
the
month
,
he
went
over
to
San
Francisco
and
personally
called
upon
the
editor
.
But
he
did
not
meet
that
exalted
personage
,
thanks
to
a
Cerberus
of
an
office
boy
,
of
tender
years
and
red
hair
,
who
guarded
the
portals
.
At
the
end
of
the
fifth
week
the
manuscript
came
back
to
him
,
by
mail
,
without
comment
.
There
was
no
rejection
slip
,
no
explanation
,
nothing
.
In
the
same
way
his
other
articles
were
tied
up
with
the
other
leading
San
Francisco
papers
.
When
he
recovered
them
,
he
sent
them
to
the
magazines
in
the
East
,
from
which
they
were
returned
more
promptly
,
accompanied
always
by
the
printed
rejection
slips
.
The
short
stories
were
returned
in
similar
fashion
.
He
read
them
over
and
over
,
and
liked
them
so
much
that
he
could
not
puzzle
out
the
cause
of
their
rejection
,
until
,
one
day
,
he
read
in
a
newspaper
that
manuscripts
should
always
be
typewritten
.
That
explained
it
.
Of
course
editors
were
so
busy
that
they
could
not
afford
the
time
and
strain
of
reading
handwriting
.
Martin
rented
a
typewriter
and
spent
a
day
mastering
the
machine
.
Each
day
he
typed
what
he
composed
,
and
he
typed
his
earlier
manuscripts
as
fast
as
they
were
returned
him
.
He
was
surprised
when
the
typed
ones
began
to
come
back
.
His
jaw
seemed
to
become
squarer
,
his
chin
more
aggressive
,
and
he
bundled
the
manuscripts
off
to
new
editors
.
The
thought
came
to
him
that
he
was
not
a
good
judge
of
his
own
work
.
He
tried
it
out
on
Gertrude
.
He
read
his
stories
aloud
to
her
.
Her
eyes
glistened
,
and
she
looked
at
him
proudly
as
she
said
:
-
