She would talk, a warm human being, in her quick, bright way, and, most important of all, she would catch glimpses of the real Martin Eden.

In his work she would discern what his heart and soul were like, and she would come to understand something, a little something, of the stuff of his dreams and the strength of his power.
Martin gathered together a number of carbon copies of his short stories, hesitated a moment, then added his "Sea Lyrics." They mounted their wheels on a late June afternoon and rode for the hills.

It was the second time he had been out with her alone, and as they rode along through the balmy warmth, just chilled by she sea-breeze to refreshing coolness, he was profoundly impressed by the fact that it was a very beautiful and well-ordered world and that it was good to be alive and to love.

They left their wheels by the roadside and climbed to the brown top of an open knoll where the sunburnt grass breathed a harvest breath of dry sweetness and content.
"Its work is done," Martin said, as they seated themselves, she upon his coat, and he sprawling close to the warm earth.

He sniffed the sweetness of the tawny grass, which entered his brain and set his thoughts whirling on from the particular to the universal.