“For example,” Alter continued, “what on earth would have become of that young man whose work you showed me, Margaret, if he had committed himself to the Navy at the age of thirteen? Of course, any critic would say those poems were immature. So they were; the technique of the sonnet was awry; the scansion was often loose; here and there they were too sonorous, too strained for the sake of effect. But so many of the essentials of poetry were there--real feeling, real imagination, and observation of the kind that’s worth having. Never an adjective that he had not thought out with his eyes tight shut or wide open. If he can write like that before he is twenty--why, given a chance to develop, he might do anything. But if he were shut up in the Navy, burdened with the sameness of routine, brought into contact only with men whose minds are highly specialized for one purpose, war----” He interrupted himself with a gesture. “And there must be people of that kind in the Fleet--not poets necessarily, but men who, for one reason or another, need--need desperately--intellectual space. Most of us need it, unless our minds are very limited--that’s the worst of the tragedy, _most_ of us need it. And in the Navy, so far as I can judge, it must be almost impossible to obtain--at any rate, it is probably to be purchased only at the price of resignation or professional failure.” John did not hear the conversation that followed. His thoughts were proceeding by strange paths, now of pride and gladness, now so steep and dark that he could neither see nor imagine any end to them. Later in the evening Alter spoke to him alone. “I’m unspeakably sorry,” he said. “It was stupid of me not to have guessed; but Margaret ought to have warned me--she, with her mysterious poet whose name she would conceal in order to tantalize me. It’s of no use to ask you not to let my words unsettle you; they are said, and I meant them, and there’s an end of it. But I shall feel responsible now. Will you let me help you, if I can? I don’t mean with master-keys to editors’ rooms--you must win them for yourself. But I can give advice and criticism for what they are worth. I should want to help in any case now, but the more because you are my old friend’s son. Will you remember?” John thanked him as well as he could. When Alter had gone Margaret came to him. “I never guessed that he might talk of it to-night,” she said. “But you have heard his opinion yourself, and I am glad of that. Was the rest of what he said true?” “Yes--in a way. I never thought of it in those terms before.” “And now you will go on thinking of it. You mustn’t, you mustn’t--but I know you will. And if it hurts, I am the cause of every hurt. I made you see clearly.” She looked straight into his eyes, her own eyes glistening. “Whatever comes of it all, will you try to forgive me?” “Perhaps I shall thank you some day,” he answered. “After all, it is better to see clearly, isn’t it?”