WHEN PIPPA PASSED
"When did you write it?"
"Last night."
"Have you any more like it?"
"I don't know if it's like it. I've got quite a good deal more. What do you" He could get no further. Drops of perspiration started from his forehead. His mouth was drawn flat with anxiety.
"This poetry," said Delafield, with a carefully impersonal calm, "is very good. It is remarkably good. It is stunning, in fact. 'And moored at last in some pale bay of dawn'—why did you stop there? Isn't that rather abrupt?"
"That was when it ended. Do you really think"
"I don't think anything about it. I know. You have a future before you, my young friend. I should like to see—Good Lord, what is it?"
For the boy had twined his arms around the lamp-post and was slowly sinking to the pavement. His face was ghastly white. Delafield grasped his arm, and as their eyes met, the older man drew a quick breath and scowled.
72
