As I rose, Mr. Shaynor was stretching and yawning at leisure.
“I’ve had a bit of a doze,” he said. “How did I come to knock the chair over? You look rather—”
“The chair startled me,” I answered. “It was so sudden in this quiet.”
Young Mr. Cashell behind his shut door was offendedly silent.
“I suppose I must have been dreaming,” said Mr. Shaynor.
“I suppose you must,” I said. “Talking of dreams—I—I noticed you writing—before—”
He flushed consciously.
“I meant to ask you if you’ve ever read anything written by a man called Keats.”
“Oh! I haven’t much time to read poetry, and I can’t say that I remember the name exactly. Is he a popular writer?”
“Middling. I thought you might know him because he’s the only poet who was ever a druggist. And he’s rather what’s called the lover’s poet.”