“It’s Mrs. Jenkins, the widow, that has her hooks in him ... around where he boards ... and, to be frank with you, he’s going it so strong with her that he’s sick and rundown ... and not so right, at times, up here!” and Hartman tapped his forehead with his forefinger significantly....

“Now, you’re the nearest one to him around here,” he went on, “and I’ll tell you what we were going to do ... his lodge, of which I’m a member, was going to give him a trip, to separate him from her, and cure him ... you come back just pat....

“Has your daddy any relatives that can afford to entertain him, out in the West, where you came from?”

“Yes, one of my uncles, his brother, is very well off, and would be glad to take him in ... in fact any of the folks back home would,” my voice sounded hollow and far off as I answered.

“You’re a pretty smart lad ... do you want to go back with him when he goes?”

“No, Mr. Hartman.”

“Well, we can tip the porter to take care of him ... but why don’t you want to go with him, we will foot your expenses?”

“I have other things to do,” I answered vaguely.

He gave a gesture of impatience....

* * * * *

There was a hush in the house, as I stepped softly up the stairs.  The catch of the front door was back....

First I went to my room and found all my books intact ... in better condition even, than when I was home with them ... there was not a speck of dust anywhere.  Evidently my father was not too sick to keep the place clean ... but then, I meditated he would attend to that, with his last effort.

My books were my parents, my relatives.  I had been born of them, not of my own father and mother.  My being born in the flesh was a mere accident of nature.  My father and mother happened to be the vehicle.

But the place was so quiet it perturbed me.

“Pop!” I called, going toward his bed-room.

The door leading into it slowly opened.  The little, dark widow was in there with him.

“Hush! your father is asleep.”

A hatred of both him and her shot up quick in my heart.  I sensed their abandonment to the sheerly physical, till it took in their whole horizon.  It was utterly ignoble.  I had a vision of all humanity, living, for the most part, merely for food and sex, letting art and poetry and beauty and adventure pass by, content if they only achieved the bare opportunity of daily wallowing in their mire.

I was bad and mean enough, but the conception of a single poem in my brain, till it found birth on paper, was, I swore, bigger and finer than all this world-mess at its best.  Also there was in me somewhat the thwarted, sinister hatred of the celibate....

* * * * *

“You mustn’t bother your father now,” little Mrs. Jenkins interposed, as I started in, “you must let him rest for awhile, and not wake him.”