Vance couldn't, for the moment, define it more clearly; but it was something impossible to shake off, close and haunting as a scent or a cadence, like the perfume in Mrs. Pulsifer's clothes, or her curious unfinished ejaculations. It made him want to lie and stare at the sky and dream, or else start up and write poetry; not a big sweeping thing, such as he had dreamed of by the winter ocean, but the wistful fragments that used to chant in his brain during his solitary sessions at the Willows. Yes … poetry: that was what was stirring and murmuring in him again.

When these impulses came they were overmastering. As he walked through the still-torpid town and out to Mrs. Tracy's, lines and images rose in his glowing mind like sea gods out of a summer sea. He had forgotten where he was, or to whom he was returning. The morning was gray and cold, and when he got out of the town he started on a run, and reached the house out of breath. At the door he was met by Laura Lou, wide-eyed and trembling a little, but forcing a smile of welcome. "Oh, Vanny—" He caught her to him, and cried out: "Give me some coffee quick, darling, and fix it up so I won't be bothered for the rest of the day, can't you? I've got to write a poem straight off … a long one … before the light fades."

"Light fades? Why, it's early morning," she rejoined with bewildered eyes.

"Yes, but not that light," he said, loosening her arms and smiling at her as if she were a remote memory, and not a sentient creature on his breast.

Mrs. Tracy emerged from the kitchen. "I'll get your coffee for you. I guess you'll need it, after one of your nights," she said severely. "Laura Lou, you better go straight up now and try and get a little sleep," she added in the same tone to her daughter.