They had not understood; they would never understand, these women. Mrs. Tracy, he was sure, was recalling that other night, his night of dissipation with Upton after the ball game; and Laura Lou perhaps had the same suspicion, though she would never own to it. And he knew he could never make either of them understand that what he was drunk with now was poetry… . Mrs. Tracy brought his coffee into the dining room (piping hot, he had to admit); then she poked up the fire, and left him at his writing table. His head dropped between his hands, and he murmured to himself: "Gold upon gold, like trumpets in the sunrise… ." It had sounded glorious as he crooned it over, drowsing in the train; but now he was not so sure… . When Mrs. Tracy, four hours later, came in to set the table for the midday dinner he started up out of a deep sleep on the springless divan. "No—she's more beautiful than that… ." he stammered; and his mother-in-law admonished him, as she set down the plates: "Well, I guess you better not say anything more about that; and I'll hold my tongue if you do."

Vance stared and pushed back his rumpled hair. "It was somebody—in a poem… ." he said; and Mrs. Tracy responded with her mirthless laugh: "That what they call it in New York? I guess you better go up and get washed now," she added; and looking at the blank sheets scattered over his desk, Vance saw that he must have fallen asleep directly after she had left him, without writing a line of his poem.