"Oh, I don't publish. I only talk about them. It gets me many a good meal."
"Well, you're a good sport," said Jack.
More than an hour passed before Jack caught sight of Bobo again. In the meantime he was parted from the poetess, and the deafening clamor began to weary him.
"There's enough hot air let out here to fill one of the Consolidated gas-tanks," he had said to the poetess.
"Yes, but it's not illuminating gas," she had retorted.
He reflected that he would most likely run across Bobo in the vicinity of the refreshments, and conducting an investigation, he discovered an excellent buffet supper set forth in one of the rooms below. Sure enough, Bobo presently drifted in here.
"Where have you been?" asked Jack.
"Oh, Mrs. Cleaver took me up to the library where she receives a few of the principal guests," he drawled.
"My word!" said Jack, fixing him with an imaginary monocle.
The sarcasm was lost on Bobo. He exhibited a new preoccupation. He had a faraway gaze, and ever and anon he heaved a sigh. Even his appetite was affected. He ate nothing at all; not a thing except a couple of vol au vents of chicken livers, a helping of lobster Newburgh, a handful of sandwiches, a cup of punch or two, and a plate of petits fours.