I shifted my chair a little, turned my head in the opposite direction, and then slowly covering Stirling with my gaze--the polite way of staring at a stranger--got a full view of the man's face and figure; rather a difficult thing on a crowded night at Sherry's, unless the tables are close together. What I saw was a well-built, athletic-looking young man with a smooth-shaven face, laughing eyes, a Cupid mouth, curly brown hair, and a fresh ruddy complexion; a Lord Byron sort of a young fellow with a modern up-to-date training. He was evidently charming his guests, for every man's head was bent forward seemingly hanging on each word that fell from his lips. "A rajah, is he? He don't look like an Oriental." "He isn't. He was born in New Jersey." "Is he an artist?" "Yes, five or six different kinds; he draws better than I do; plays on three instruments, and speaks five languages." "Rich?" "No--dead broke half the time." I glanced at the young fellow's faultless appearance and the group of men he was entertaining. My eye took in the array of bottles, the number of wineglasses of various sizes, and the mass of roses that decorated the centre of the table. Such appointments and accompaniments are not generally the property of the poor. Then, again, I remembered we were at Sherry's. "What does he do for a living, then?" I asked. "Do for a living? He doesn't do anything for a living. He's a purveyor of cheerfulness. He wakes up every morning with a fresh stock of happiness, more than he can use himself, and he trades it off during the day for anything he can get." "What kind of things?" I was a little hazy over Marny's meaning. "Oh, dinners--social, of course--board bills, tailor's bills, invitations to country houses, voyages on yachts--anything that comes along and of which he may be in need at the time. Most interesting man in town. Everybody loves him. Known all over the world. If a fellow gets sick, Stirling waltzes in, fires out the nurse, puts on a linen duster, starts an alcohol lamp for gruel, and never leaves till you are out again. All the time he is pumping laughs into you and bracing you up so that you get well twice as quick. Did it for me once for five weeks on a stretch, when I was laid up in my studio with inflammatory rheumatism, with my grub bills hung up in the restaurant downstairs, and my rent three months overdue. Fed me on the fat of the land, too. Soup from Delmonico's, birds from some swell house up the Avenue, where he had been dining--sent that same night with the compliments of his hostess with a 'Please forgive me, but dear Mr. Stirling tells me how ill you have been, and at his suggestion, and with every sympathy for your sufferings--please accept.' Oh, I tell you he's a daisy!" Here a laugh sounded from Stirling's table. "Who's he got in tow now?" I asked, as my eyes roamed over the merry party.