The poet’s abstracted gaze rested on him, then shifted.
“I—I don’t feel very well,” said the poet hoarsely, sitting down in a hall-seat. Suddenly he began to cry, fatly.
Nobody did anything; the stupefied footman gaped; West looked, walked nervously the length of the hall, looked again, and paced the inlaid floor to and fro, until the bell at the door sounded and a messenger-boy appeared with a note scribbled on a yellow telegraph blank:
“Lethbridge and I just married and madly happy. Will be on hand Monday, sure. Can’t you advance us three months’ salary?
“Harrow.”
“Idiots!” said West. Then, looking up: “What are you waiting for, boy?”
“Me answer,” replied the messenger calmly.
“Oh, you were told to bring back an answer?”
“Ya-as.”
“Then give me your pencil, my infant Chesterfield.” And West scribbled on the same yellow blank: