And the poor puzzled Nabin would say: "Y-e-s, I see; yes, of course"; and then after some thought would murmur again: "Yes, yes, you are right!"
As I have already said, in my own love there was a feeling of reverential delicacy which prevented me from putting it into words. But with Nabin as a screen, there was nothing to hinder the flow of my pen; and a true warmth of feeling gushed out into these vicarious poems.
Nabin in his lucid moment's would say: "But these are yours! Let me publish them over your name."
"Nonsense!" I would reply. "They are yours, my dear fellow; I have only added a touch or two here and there."
And Nabin gradually came to believe it.
I will not deny that, with a feeling akin to that of the astronomer gazing into the starry heavens, I did sometimes turn my eyes towards the window of the house next door. It is also true that now and again my furtive glances would be rewarded with a vision. And the least glimpse of the pure light of that countenance would at once still and clarify all that was turbulent and unworthy in my emotions.
