Aaron shook his head and told the story.
"Now get at it," he enjoined, as he bundled him out. "It's your job, not mine, and I have a letter to write...."
The poet, a few days later, paid an afternoon call. He rang the bell of a flat in Northumberland Court, enquired for Mrs. Abrahams, and after a moment's hesitation was shown into a small drawing-room in which half a dozen people were seated. The lady who was evidently a hostess, a large, Jewish-looking woman, rose from her place on the couch and regarded him with mingled distrust and curiosity. The poet, however, who had seen Jack Lovejoy in a corner of the room, was not in the least abashed.
"You haven't forgotten me, I hope, Mrs. Abrahams?" he said, bending gallantly over her hesitating hand. "I met you at my aunt's, Lady Sittingley's, and you were kind enough to say that I might come and see you sometime. I ventured to bring you the small offering I promised you—my poems, bound now, I am thankful to say, with a little more dignity than when we last met."
Mrs. Abrahams' face cleared slightly but she remained somewhat disturbed.
"Of course! You are Mr. Cresswell, aren't you, the poet? I remember the curious stories there were about the beginning of your popularity. You have really brought me that book? How charming of you!"
"I have promised myself this pleasure for a long time," Cresswell assured her.
"Let me see," she went on, making room for him by her side, "when was it that I met you at your aunt's?"
"I have no memory, even for such inspiring events," he confessed ingenuously, "but I think it was about three months ago."
She sighed gently.