"Ban," she said, seating herself and letting her fingers run over the
keys, "can't you substitute another word for 'muffled' in the third
line? It comes on a high note--upper g--and I want a long, not a short
vowel sound."
"How would 'silenced' do?" he offered, after studying the line.
"Beautifully. You're a most amiable poet! Ban, I think your verses are
going to be more famous than my music."
"Never that," he denied. "It's the music that makes them."
"Have you heard from Mr. Gaines yet about the essays?"
"Yes. He's taking them. He wants to print two in each issue and call
them 'Far Perspectives.'"
"Oh, good!" she cried. "But, Ban, fine as your work is, it seems a
terrible waste of your powers to be out here. You ought to be in New
York, helping the governor put through his projects."
"Well, you know, the doctor won't give me my release."
(Presently he must remember to have a coughing spell. He coughed
hollowly and well, thanks to assiduous practice. This was part of the
grim and loving comedy of deception: that he had been peremptorily
ordered back to Manzanita on account of "weak lungs," with orders to
live in his open shack until he had gained twenty pounds. He was
gaining, but with well-considered slowness.
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