* * * * *

So at last I was reaping the fruits of my years of struggle for the poetic ideal—­my years of poverty and suffering.

A belated student at college, twenty-five years of age ... a tramp for the sake of my art ... as I sat in my cold room ... propped up by my one overturned chair ... in bed ... betaking myself there to keep from freezing while I wrote and dreamed and read and studied,—­I burst out singing some of my own verses, making the tune to the lines as I went along.

“John Gregory, you are a great man, and some day all the world shall know and acknowledge it!” I said over and over again to myself....

“And now, Vanna, my love, my darling,” I cried aloud, so that if anyone overheard, the auditor would think I was going mad, “now, Vanna, you shall see ... in a year I shall have my first book of poetry out ... and fame and money for royalties will be mine ... then I will dare speak to you boldly of my love for you ... and you will be glad and proud of it ... and be happy to marry me and be my wife!”

* * * * *

In the meantime Vanna Andrews was daily seen driving down the streets with Billy Conway, whose father was Governor of a Western State ... as I saw her going by in her fragile beauty, I bowed my head to her, and in return came a slight nod of mere, passing acquaintanceship.

I made friends with Billy, as I had done with Vanna’s homely room-mate ... who thought I was becoming interested in her—­because I often spoke in Vanna’s dispraise, to throw her off the track, and to encourage her to speak at greater length of the woman I loved and worshipped from a-far.

Now I sought through Billy Conway a nearer opportunity for her favour.  He approached me one day while we were out on the football field, practicing formations.  I was on the scrub team—­whose duty it was to help knock the big team into shape.

“Johnnie, you know Vanna, don’t you?...  Vanna Andrews, the art student.”

“Slightly,” I concealed, thanking God I hadn’t blushed straightway at the mention of her name ... “—­met her when I posed for Professor Grant’s classes.”

“She’s a beaut, ain’t she?”

“Everybody thinks so.”

“Don’t you?”

“She’d be perfect, if she weren’t so thin,” I answered, almost smothering from the thumping of my heart.

“I’ve often wondered what makes you so cold toward the girls ... when you write poetry ... poets are supposed to be romantic.”

“We have a good imagination.”

“—­wish you’d exercise your imagination a little for me ...  I’d pay you for it.”

“For what?”

“—­writing poems on Vanna, for me.”

My heart gave a wild jump of joy at the opportunity.

“I’ll think it over.  But if I do so, I won’t take anything for it.”

Billy shook my hand fervently.