eptember. She opened out the
thick, folded paper.

"It's poetry," she added. "'Songs of the Street,' If he's gone back to
poetry, I'm afraid he's lost."

She began to glance through them.

"My dear, I've asked you for coffee twice."

"These are powerful and ugly. Think of Jarvis seeing these things."

"Coffee," reiterated the Professor.

"Yes, yes. You must read these. They're upsetting. I wonder what is
happening to Jarvis."

"Is he in trouble?"

"No, he doesn't say so. But there's a new note in these."

"Coffee," repeated the Professor, patiently.

"For goodness' sake, father, stop shouting coffee. You are the epitome
of the irritating this morning."

"I always am until I have my coffee."

All day long Bambi thought about Jarvis's "Street Songs." It was not the
things themselves. They were crude enough, in spots, but it was the new
sense in Jarvis that made him see and understand human suffering. She
felt an irresistible impulse to take the next train and go to him. Would
he be glad to see her? For the first time she wanted him, eagerly. But
the impulse passed, and weeks stretched into months. She worked steadily
at the book, which grew apace. She loved every word of it. Sometimes she
wondered what would become of her without that work, during this waiting
time, while Jarvis was making his career. For, in her mind, she always
thought of herself and her writing as a side issue of no moment.
Jarvis's work was the big, important thing in her life.

He wrote freely about his work on the other plays, asking her judgment
and advice, as he had on "Success." She gave her best thought and
closest attention to the problems he put to her, and he showed the same
respect for her decisions.

The six weeks grew into two months, and no answer from the Frohman
offices. He wrote her that he went in there every other day, but could
get no satisfaction. They always said his play was in the hands of the
readers. It had to take its turn.

He finished "The Vision" and offered it to Winthrop Ames, of the Little
Theatre. "I am hopeful of this man. I have never seen him, but the
theatre is well bred, and, to my surprise, a capable, intelligent
secretary received me courteously in the office and promised a quick
reading. This augurs well for the man at the head of it, I think."

In reply to her insistence that he must come for Thanksgiving, he told
her that he had made a vow that he would never come back to her until he
had