Chapter XL - Page 2

something else. Now that something else had been finished, and he
would apply himself to this task until it was finished. What he
would do next he did not know. All that he did know was that a
climacteric in his life had been attained. A period had been
reached, and he was rounding it off in workman-like fashion. He
was not curious about the future. He would soon enough find out
what it held in store for him. Whatever it was, it did not matter.
Nothing seemed to matter.

For five days he toiled on at "Overdue," going nowhere, seeing
nobody, and eating meagrely. On the morning of the sixth day the
postman brought him a thin letter from the editor of THE PARTHENON.
A glance told him that "Ephemera" was accepted. "We have submitted
the poem to Mr. Cartwright Bruce," the editor went on to say, "and
he has reported so favorably upon it that we cannot let it go. As
an earnest of our pleasure in publishing the poem, let me tell you
that we have set it for the August number, our July number being
already made up. Kindly extend our pleasure and our thanks to Mr.
Brissenden. Please send by return mail his photograph and
biographical data. If our honorarium is unsatisfactory, kindly
telegraph us at once and state what you consider a fair price."

Since the honorarium they had offered was three hundred and fifty
dollars, Martin thought it not worth while to telegraph. Then,
too, there was Brissenden's consent to be gained. Well, he had
been right, after all. Here was one magazine editor who knew real
poetry when he saw it. And the price was splendid, even though it
was for the poem of a century. As for Cartwright Bruce, Martin
knew that he was the one critic for whose opinions Brissenden had
any respect.

Martin rode down town on an electric car, and as he watched the
houses and cross-streets slipping by he was aware of a regret that
he was not more elated over his friend's success and over his own
signal victory. The one critic in the United States had pronounced
favorably on the poem, while his own contention that good stuff
could find its way into the magazines had proved correct. But
enthusiasm had lost its spring in him, and he found that he was
more anxious to see Brissenden than he was to carry the good news.
The acceptance of THE PARTHENON had recalled to him that during his
five days' devotion to "Overdue" he had not heard from Brissenden
nor even thought about him. For the first time Martin realized the
daze he had been in, and he felt shame for having forgotten his
friend. But even the shame did not burn very sharply. He was numb
to emotions of any sort save the artistic ones concerned in the
writing of "Overdue." So far as other affairs were concerned, he
had been in a trance. For