Show his poetry to George Frenside (if that was the man's name)? Much chance he'd ever hear of that again … likely as not she'd never even done it; just meant to, and forgotten. For if she had, wouldn't she have had something to report—even if unfavourable? It wasn't likely she'd stick at telling him a few more home truths, after the stiff dose she'd already administered! Perhaps on second thoughts she'd decided the stuff wasn't worth showing. And yet, hadn't she told him in so many words that she had shown it? No, what she had said, literally, was: "I gave Frenside your poetry to read." Well, the great critic probably hadn't taken advantage of his opportunity—perhaps she'd put him off in advance with her comments. "Urge" not a noun! And that nonsense about "dawn" and "lorn" not being good rhymes! God, to see a tone-deaf woman laying down the law—and all Eaglewood kowtowing! Well, he had to laugh at the thought of those stuffed oracles sitting up there and telling each other what was what… . What the hell'd he care for their opinion, anyhow—of his poetry, or of himself? Lot of self-opiniated amateurs … he had to laugh… . Well, he'd go to New York the next day, and look round on his own, and see what the professionals thought about him… . After all, he could describe himself as being on the staff of the Free Speaker.

Suddenly a shadow cut off the western sunlight slanting on his book, and he saw one of the young men from Eaglewood leaning on the window and looking in at him—not the fair dissatisfied-looking one they called "Lewis," but the other: Halo's brother Lorburn. Lorburn Spear put his hand on the sill, said "Hullo—still at it?" and vaulted into the room. In the middle of the floor he paused, his hands in his pockets, and gazed about with an amused smile and ironically lifted brows. He was slim and dark, like Halo, with the same carefully drawn features as his father, but more height and less majesty than Mr. Spear. An easy accessible sort of fellow; a fellow Vance felt he could have taken a liking to if only—if what? Perhaps it was that his eyes were too close together. Grandma Scrimser always used to say: "Don't you ever trust a man whose eyes are near enough to be always whispering to each other." And then she went and trusted everybody—even Grandpa! Fact was, Grandma liked axioms the way you like olives; it never occurred to her they were meant for anything but to roll under your tongue… .