"Not in your case--no, not in your case. _I_ can do that; I have done it. No, your sacred mission is simply to forget that you are wealthy. That is a very precious thought, Mr. Wayne--remain a Croesus and forget it! Not to eliminate your _wealth_, but eliminate all _thought_ of it. Very, very precious." "Well, I never think about things like that except at a directors' meeting," blurted out the young fellow. "Perhaps it's because I've never had to think about it." The poet sighed so sweetly that the atmosphere seemed to drip with the saccharine injection. "I wish," ventured Wayne, "that you would let me mention the subject of business"--the poet shook his head indulgently--"just to say that I'm not going to foreclose." He laid a packet of legal papers in the poet's hand. "Hush," smiled Guilford, "this is not seemly in the house beautiful.... _What_ was it you said, Mr. Wayne?" "I? I was going to say that I just wanted--wanted to stay here--be your guest, if you'll let me," he said honestly. "I was cruising--I didn't understand--Briggs--Briggs--" He stuck. "Yes, Briggs," softly suggested the poet, spraying the night air with more sweetness. "Briggs has spoken to you about--about your daughter Vanessa. You see, Briggs is my closest friend; his happiness is--er--important to me. I want to see Briggs happy; that's why I want to stay here, just to see Briggs happy. I--I love Briggs. You understand me, don't you, Mr. Guilford?" The poet breathed a dulcet breath. "Perfectly," he murmured. "The contemplation of Mr. Briggs' happiness eliminates all thoughts of self within you. By this process of elimination you arrive at happiness yourself. Ah, the thought is a very precious one, my young friend, for by elimination only can we arrive at perfection. Thank you for the thought; thank you. You have given me a very, very precious thought to cherish." "I--I have been here a week," muttered Wayne. "I thought--perhaps--my welcome might be outworn----" "In the house beautiful," murmured the poet, rising and waving his heavy white hand at the open door, "welcome is eternal." He folded his arms with difficulty, for he was stout, and one hand clutched the legal papers; his head sank. In profound meditation he wandered away into the shadowy house, leaving Wayne sitting on the veranda rail, eyes fixed on a white shape dimly seen moving through the moonlit meadows below. Briggs sauntered into sight presently, his arms full of flowers. "Get me a jug of water, will you? Vanessa has been picking these and she sent me back to fix 'em. Hurry, man! She is waiting for me in the garden." Wayne gazed earnestly at his friend. "So you have done it, have you, Stuyve?" "Done what?" demanded Briggs, blushing. "It."