"Then let us shake hands upon our compact." For a moment, Elaine's warm, rosy hand rested in the clammy, nerveless palm of Harold Vernon Perkins. "Last night," he sighed, "I could not sleep. I was distressed by noises which appeared to emanate from the apartment of Mr. Skiles. Did you hear nothing?" "Nothing," returned Elaine; "I sleep very soundly." "The privilege of unpoetic souls," commented Mr. Perkins. "But, as usual, my restlessness was not without definite and beautiful result. In the still watches of the night, I achieved a--poem." "Read it," cried Elaine, rapturously. "Oh, if I might hear it!" Thus encouraged, Mr. Perkins drew a roll from his breast pocket. A fresh blue ribbon held it in cylindrical form, and the drooping ends waved in careless, artistic fashion. "As you might expect, if you knew about such things," he began, clearing his throat, and all unconscious of the rapid approach of Mr. Chester, "it is upon sleep. It is done in the sonnet form, a very beautiful measure which I have made my own. I will read it now. "SONNET ON SLEEP "O Sleep, that fillst the human breast with peace, When night's dim curtains swing from out the West, In what way, in what manner, could we rest Were thy beneficent offices to cease? O Sleep, thou art indeed the snowy fleece Upon Day's lamb. A welcome guest That comest alike to palace and to nest And givest the cares of life a glad release. O Sleep, I beg thee, rest upon my eyes, For I am weary, worn, and sad,--indeed, Of thy great mercies have I piteous need So come and lead me off to Paradise." His voice broke at the end, not so much from the intrinsic beauty of the lines as from perceiving Mr. Chester close at hand, grinning like the fabled pussy-cat of Cheshire, except that he did not fade away, leaving only the grin. Elaine felt the alien presence and looked around. Woman-like, she quickly grasped the situation. "I have been having a rare treat, Mr. Chester," she said, in her smoothest tones. "Mr. Perkins has very kindly been reading to me his beautiful _Sonnet on Sleep_, composed during a period of wakefulness last night. Did you hear it? Is it not a most unusual sonnet?" "It is, indeed," answered Dick, dryly. "I never before had the privilege of hearing one that contained only twelve lines. Dante and Petrarch and Shakespeare and all those other ducks put fourteen lines in every blamed sonnet, for good measure." Hurt to the quick, the sensitive poet walked away. "How can you speak so!" cried Elaine, angrily. "Is not Mr. Perkins privileged to create a form?" "To create a form, yes," returned Dick, easily, "but not to monkey with an old one. There's a difference."