In a few minutes he did me an honour he had never shown me before.  He came over to where I sat.  “Razorre,” he invited, “how would you like to take a hike with me into the country, this morning?”

I gave him a swift glance.  “I would like it very much.”

“Then as soon as you are through, meet me in the library.”

I drank a second cup of coffee with studied deliberation—­in spite of myself, I was thrilled with the notice that had been shown me before all the others.  Already my anger had somewhat lessened.

* * * * *

Never had the master been so eloquent, so much his better self, since that first day, at the wood-pile.  He strove to throw the magic of his spirit over me with all his power.  For hours we walked, the light, pale green of the renewing year about us.  But through it all I saw what he was trying to effect ... to impress me so deeply that I would not only forgive him for having stolen my poem, but actually thank him, for having used it—­even consider it a mark of honour ... which his eloquence almost persuaded me to do.

Indeed I saw the true greatness in “John” ... but I also saw and resented the petty, cruel pilferer—­stealing helpless, unknown, youthful genius for his own—­resented it even more because the resources of the man’s nature did not require it of him to descend to such pitiful expedients.  He was rich enough in himself for his own fame and glory.

And why should he rob a young poet of his first fame, of the exquisite pleasure of seeing his name for the first time in print? ... than which there is no pleasure more exquisite ... not even the first possession of a loved woman!...

We had almost returned to the “Artworks” before I tried to let loose on him ... but even then I could not.  Gently I asked him why he had not affixed my name to my poem.

He looked at me with well-simulated amazement.

“Why, Razorre, I never even thought of it ... we are all a part of one community of endeavour here ... and we all give our efforts as a contribution to the Eos Idea ...  I have paid you a higher compliment than merely giving you credit ... instead, I have incorporated your verse into the very body of our thought and life.”

His effrontery struck me silent.  I told him sadly that I must now go away.

“Nonsense,” he replied, “this is as good a place in which to develop your poetic genius as any place in the world.  I may say, better.  Here you will find congenial environment, ready appreciation .. come, let us walk a little further,” and we turned aside from the steps of the dining room and struck down the main street of the town.

“I mean bigger things for you, Razorre, than you can guess....  I will make you the Eos Poet—­look at Gresham, he is the Eos Artist, and, as such, his fame is continent-wide ... just as yours will become ... and I will bring out a book of your poetry ... and advertise it in The Dawn.”