“So the poem was accepted?” murmured Straws. “Discerning Tortier! Excellent dilettante! Let him henceforth be known as a man of taste!” Here the poet critically examined the bottle. “Nothing vapid, thin or characterless there!” he added, holding it before the blaze in the grate. “Positively I’ll dedicate my forthcoming book to him. ‘To that worshipful master and patron, the tasteful Tortier!’ What did he say, Celestina, when you tendered him the poem?”
“At first he frowned and then he looked thoughtful. And then he gave me some orange syrup. And then––O, I don’t want to say!” A look of unutterable concern displacing the happiness on her features.
“Say on, my dear!” cried Straws.
“He––he said he––he didn’t think much of it as––O, I can’t tell you; I can’t! I can’t!”
“Celestina,” said the poet sternly, “tell me at once. I command you.”
“He said he didn’t think much of it as poetry, but that people would read it and come to his café and––O dear, O dear!”
“Beast! Brute! Parvenu! But there, don’t cry, my dear. We have much to be thankful for––we have the bottle.”
“Oh, yes,” she said with conviction, and brightening a bit. “We have the bottle.” And as she spoke, “pop” it went, and Celestina laughed. “May I set your table?” she asked.
“After your inestimable service to me, my dear, I find it impossible to refuse,” he replied gravely.