“Quite so. And—ah—do you happen to know who it was that—ah—presented your tickets and occupied the seats this afternoon?”
“Why, I suppose it was two young men in our employ—Mr. Lethbridge, who appraises property for us, and Mr. Harrow, one of our brokers. May I ask why?”
For a long while the poet sat there, eyes squeezed tightly closed as though 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 gazed at a priceless Massero vase, made a half-hearted attempt to join thumb and forefinger, then rambled toward the door, where two spotless flunkies 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 Arts Theater—if that is what you wished.”
“Thank you,” said the poet absently as a footman invested him with a seal-lined coat.
“Is there anything more I could do for you, Mr. Guilford?”