ith an eloquent, upward sweep of
his arm, "it's so bums like you ... dirty tramps ... can't wipe their
feet on them."

"I am so sorry, so very sorry," I murmured, contrite.

Thinking my contrition meekness, and possibly fear of him, he went to
take me by the shoulders. I knocked his hands away promptly and quickly
stepped back, on the defensive ... all my reverence for him swallowed up
in indignation, rising at last, against his vulgar chiding.

At that moment, my widow, Mrs. Tighe, arrived ... she was weeping....

"Don't be hard on the poor boy," she pleaded ... "anyhow, it was all my
fault ... and I want to pay you for your vase ... whatever it cost."...

A momentary flicker of greed lighted the Master's eyes. But he
perceived as instantly how unmagnanimous he would appear if he accepted
a cash settlement.

"I am not thinking of my financial loss ... beauty cannot be valued that
way!" he exclaimed.

"Then you must not blame the boy."

"He is clumsy ... he is a terrible fool ... he is always doing the wrong
thing. Oh, my beautiful vase!" and he wrung his hands, lost in the pose.
Out he strode through the front door.

* * * * *

The musicale had been broken up.

"My poor, dear Johnnie, I am so sorry," murmured the young woman. I was
sitting in the large armchair where she had sat the memorable night of
the lecture that neither of us attended. She had seated herself on one
of the arms.

"You mustn't be despondent!" She was patting my hand.

She mistook my rage at the gratuitous insults Spalton had heaped on me
as despondency. She leaned closer against me ... quickly I caught her
into my arms, drew her into my lap ... held her little, quiet, amazed
face in my hands firmly, as I kissed and kissed her.... I knew how to
kiss now....

She rose presently. I stood up and caught her in my arms. Slowly and
firmly she disengaged herself ... silently she slid away. She stopped in
the shadow a moment before going up the long, winding stairs.

"Good night, my dear poet," she whispered.

She had no sooner disappeared than I started out, my heart beating like
a drum to a charge in me. Spalton frequently wrote till late, in his
office. I would go over there and, if he was there, call him to account
for his insults. There was a light lit within, and I could see him
through the window at his desk.

"Come in!" in answer to my knock. "Oh, it's you, Razorre!" and his eyes
snapped with fres