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           Itwasapoemthatshehadwrittenatschoolaboutagrayconventwallonagrayday,andagirlwithhercloakblownbythewindsittingatopofitandthinkingaboutthemany-coloredworld.Asarulesuchsentimentboredhim,butthiswasdonewithsomuchsimplicityandatmosphere,thatitbroughtapictureofClaratohismind,ofClaraonsuchacool,graydaywithherkeenblueeyesstaringout,tryingtoseehertragediescomemarchingoverthegardensoutside.Heenviedthatpoem.Howhewouldhavelovedtohavecomealongandseenheronthewallandtalkednonsenseorromancetoher,perchedabovehimintheair.HebegantobefrightfullyjealousofeverythingaboutClara:ofherpast,ofherbabies,ofthemenandwomenwhoflockedtodrinkdeepofhercoolkindnessandresttheirtiredmindsasatanabsorbingplay.

           "Nobodyseemstoboreyou,"heobjected.

           "Abouthalftheworlddo,"sheadmitted,"butIthinkthat’saprettygoodaverage,don’tyou?"andsheturnedtofindsomethinginBrowningthatboreonthesubject.Shewastheonlypersonheevermetwhocouldlookuppassagesandquotationstoshowhiminthemiddleoftheconversation,andyetnotbeirritatingtodistraction.Shediditconstantly,withsuchaseriousenthusiasmthathegrewfondofwatchinghergoldenhairbentoverabook,browwrinkledeversolittleathuntinghersentence.

           ThroughearlyMarchhetooktogoingtoPhiladelphiaforweek-ends.