Poetry too. He wrote poetry. "There's nothing in it," he'd said. "A great poet can starve to death, even quicker than an important novelist can. I won't be victimized to that extent. Read these if you want to--I don't give a damn about them. I probably won't write another poem in the next twenty years." It didn't make much sense to her. If he was so worried about starving to death why couldn't he go out and get a job in a bakery? She watched him closely as he tore open the envelope, quite sure that he would go into a rage when he read the letter attached to his story. It had happened ten or twelve times before, when she'd brought him his mail--either a letter or a printed slip which he'd tossed at her as if he expected her to become angry too. What was there to be angry about? If he couldn't write well enough to get his stories taken by the magazines, what was to prevent him from going out and getting a paying job? She had expected him to be angry, and felt a little let down, disappointed even, when she saw that he was reading the letter with only a slight frown on his face. The frown vanished before he stopped reading. It changed to a smile and then, quite suddenly, he was laughing, yelling, waltzing around the room like a real gone beat. She got up, a little frightened, and stood staring at him, unable to believe her eyes. "It's accepted," he shouted, "Believe it or not, it's accepted and it's going to be published. A female editor who knows strong writing when she sees it--who isn't scared off by the kind of candor that goes a little beyond Faulkner but is too genuine to ignore. And to think that I used to say unkind things about female editors!" "You mean--the story's sold and you're going to get paid for it?" she asked, a stunned incredulity in her eyes. "Of course it will be paid for," he said. "It's one of the biggest magazine groups in the country. Their check is as good as a signed order from the Secretary of the Treasury, for sixteen hundred dollars from the United States mint." "Gee--that's wonderful." "Wonderful isn't the word for it. I don't give a damn about the dough. What's the matter with you anyway ... haven't I tried to explain? Oh, sure, the dough means a little something to me. I wouldn't be human if it didn't. But the important thing is the story is going to be published. It's the best thing I've ever done--tremendous writing, really tremendous writing. I'm not being egoistical, I have very high standards. I know precisely what literary distinction is and when I've achieved it--quite by accident perhaps, once in a blue moon--but I've written enough and torn up enough manuscripts and suffered enough to know. This is a great story. It will knock the critics' eyes out." "I guess I don't--" "Don't apologize, don't say a word. It's a little too much for me at the moment, too. Did I ever tell you that you're beautiful?" "No," she said. "You've never told me that. And I don't think I am."