” He handed her the phone reluctantly, barely masking his mild disgust. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “I hope that whatever your plans may be, you will give me the opportunity of seeing something of you now and then. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars.
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