Half an hour later he was deposited under the bronze shelter of the porte-cochère belonging
to an extremely expensive mansion overlooking the park; and presently, admitted, he prowled ponderously and softly about an over-gilded rococo reception-room. But all anxiety had now fled from his face; he coyly nipped the atmosphere at intervals as various portions of the furniture attracted his approval; he stood before a splendid canvas of Goya and pushed his thumb at it; he moused and prowled and peeped and snooped, and his smile grew larger and larger and sweeter and sweeter, until—dare I say it!—a low smooth chuckle, all but noiseless, rippled the heavy cheeks of the poet; and, raising his eyes, he beheld a stocky, fashionably-dressed and red-faced man of forty intently 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—this is—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 the only Stanley West in the directory.”
The poet swayed, then sat down rather suddenly on a Louis XIV chair which 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 Arts Theater—ah—Mr. West?” he managed to say at last.
“I did. Thank you very much, but I was not able to avail myself——”