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When the curtain at last descended upon the parting attitudes of theplayers the poet arose with an alacrity scarcely to be expected in agentleman of his proportions. Two and two his big, healthydaughters--there remained but four now--followed him to the lobby. Whenhe was able to pack all four into a cab he did so and sent them homewithout ceremony; then, summoning another vehicle, gave the driver thedirections and climbed in.
Half an hour later he was deposited under the bronze shelter of theporte-cochere belonging to an extremely expensive mansion overlookingthe park; and presently, admitted, he prowled ponderously and softlyabout an over-gilded rococo reception-room. But all anxiety had now fledfrom his face; he coyly nipped the atmosphere at intervals as variousportions of the furniture attracted his approval; he stood before asplendid canvas of Goya and pushed his thumb at it; he moused andprowled and peeped and snooped, and his smile grew larger and larger andsweeter and sweeter, until--dare I say it!--a low smooth chuckle, allbut noiseless, rippled the heavy cheeks of the poet; and, raising hiseyes, he beheld a stocky, fashionably-dressed and red-faced man of fortyintently eying him. The man spoke decisively and at once:
"Mr. Guilford? Quite so. I am Mr. West."
"You are--" The poet's smile flickered like a sickly candle. "I--thisis--are you Mr. _Stanley_ West?"
"I am."
"It must--it probably was your son----"
"I am unmarried," said the president of the Occidental tartly, "and theonly Stanley West in the directory."
The poet swayed, then sat down rather suddenly on a Louis XIV chairwhich crackled. Several times he passed an ample hand over his features.A mechanical smile struggled to break out, but it was not _the_ smile,any more than glucose is sugar.
"Did--ah--_did_ you receive two tickets for the New ArtsTheater--ah--Mr. West?" he managed to say at last.
"I did. Thank you very much, but I was not able to avail myself----"
"Quite so. And--ah--do you happen to know who it was that--ah--presentedyour tickets and occupied the seats this afternoon?"
"Why, I suppose it was two young men in our employ--Mr. Lethbridge, whoappraises property for us, and Mr. Harrow, one of our brokers. May I askwhy?"
For a long while the poet sat there, eyes squeezed tightly closed asthough in bodily anguish. Then he opened one of them:
"They are--ah--quite penniless, I presume?"
"They have prospects," said West briefly. "Why?"
The poet rose; something of his old attitude returned; he feebly gazedat a priceless Massero vase, made a half-hearted attempt to join thumband forefinger, then rambled toward the door, where two spotlessflunkies attended with his hat and overcoat.
"Mr. Guilford," said West, following, a trifle perplexed and remorseful,"I should be very--er--extremely happy to subscribe to the New ArtsTheater--if that is what you wished."
"Thank you," said the poet absently as a footman invested him with aseal-lined coat.
"Is there anything more I could do for you, Mr. Guilford?"
The poet's abstracted gaze rested on him, then shifted.
"I--I don't feel very well," said the poet hoarsely, sitting down in ahall-seat. Suddenly he began to cry, fatly.
Nobody did anything; the stupefied footman gaped; West looked, walkednervously the length of the hall, looked again, and paced the inlaidfloor to and fro, until the bell at the door sounded and a messenger-boyappeared with a note scribbled on a yellow telegraph blank:
"Lethbridge and I just married and madly happy. Will be on hand Monday, sure. Can't you advance us three months' salary?
"HARROW."
"Idiots!" said West. Then, looking up: "What are you waiting for, boy?"
"Me answer," replied the messenger calmly.
"Oh, you were told to bring back an answer?"
"Ya-as."
"Then give me your pencil, my infant Chesterfield." And West scribbledon the same yellow blank:
"Checks for you on your desks Monday. Congratulations. I'll see you through, you damfools.
"WEST."
"Here's a quarter for you," observed West, eying the messenger.
"T'anks. Gimme the note."
West glanced at the moist, fat poet; then suddenly that intuition whichis bred in men of his stamp set him thinking. And presently hetentatively added two and two.
"Mr. Guilford," he said, "I wonder whether this note--and my answer toit--concerns you."
The poet used his handkerchief, adjusted a pair of glasses, and blinkedat the penciled scrawl. Twice he read it; then, like the full sunbreaking through a drizzle--like the glory of a search-light dissolvinga sticky fog, _the_ smile of smiles illuminated everything: footmen,messenger, financier.
"Thank you," he said thickly; "thank you for your thought. Thought isbut a trifle to bestow--a little thing in itself. But it is the littlethings that are most important--the smaller the thing the more vital itsimportance, until"--he added in a genuine burst of his oldeloquence--"the thing becomes so small that it isn't anything at all,and then the value of nothing becomes so enormous that it is past allcomputation. That is a very precious thought! Thank you for it; thankyou for understanding. Bless you!"
Exuding a rich sweetness from every feature the poet moved toward thedoor at a slow fleshy waddle, head wagging, small eyes half closed,thumbing the atmosphere, while his lips moved in wordlessself-communion: "The attainment of nothing at all--that is rarest, themost precious, the most priceless of triumphs--very, very precious.So"--and his glance was sideways and nimbly intelligent--"so if nothingat all is of such inestimable value, those two young pups can live ontheir expectations--_quod erat demonstrandum_."
He shuddered and looked up at the facade of the gorgeous house which hehad just quitted.
"So many sunny windows to sit in--to dream in. I--I should have found itagreeable. Pups!"
Crawling into his cab he sank into a pulpy mound, partially closing hiseyes. And upon his pursed-up lips, unuttered yet imminent, a wordtrembled and wabbled as the cab bounced down the avenue. It may havebeen "precious"; it was probably "pups!"
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