Edith, glancing casually into the "ready-made" library, stopped abruptly, seeing Bibbs there alone.

He was standing before the pearl-framed and golden-lettered poem, musingly inspecting it.

He read it: FUGITIVE I will forget the things that sting: The lashing look, the barbed word.
I know the very hands that fling The stones at me had never stirred To anger but for their own scars.
They've suffered so, that's why they strike.
I'll keep my heart among the stars Where none shall hunt it out.

Oh, like These wounded ones I must not be, For, wounded, I might strike in turn! So, none shall hurt me.

Far and free Where my heart flies no one shall learn.
"Bibbs!" Edith's voice was angry, and her color deepened suddenly as she came into the room, preceded by a scent of violets much more powerful than that warranted by the actual bunch of them upon the lapel of her coat.
Bibbs did not turn his head, but wagged it solemnly, seeming depressed by the poem.