Perhaps the poet heard, for he heard a great deal when absent-minded. He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters, two and two behind him, very naturally paused also, because the poet was bulky and the aisle narrow. Those of the elect who had recognized him had now an opportunity to view him at close range; young women with expressive eyes leaned forward, quivering; several earnest young men put up lorgnettes. It was as it should have been; and the poet stood motionless in dreamy abstraction, until an usher took his coupons and turned down seven seats. Then the six daughters filed in, and the poet, slowly turning to survey the house, started slightly, as though surprised to find himself under public scrutiny, passed a large, plump hand over his forehead, and slowly subsided into the aisle-seat with a smile of whimsical acquiescence in the knowledge of his own greatness. "Who," inquired young Harrow, turning toward Lethbridge--"who is that duck?" "You can search me," replied Lethbridge in a low voice, "but for Heaven's sake _look_ at those girls! Is it right to bunch such beauty and turn down Senators from Utah?" Harrow's dazzled eyes wandered over the six golden heads and snowy necks, lovely as six wholesome young goddesses fresh from a bath in the Hellespont. "The--the one next to the one beside you," whispered Lethbridge, edging around. "I want to run away with her. Would you mind getting me a hansom?" "The one next to me has them all pinched to death," breathed Harrow unsteadily. "Look!--when she isn't looking. Did you ever see such eyes and mouth--such a superb free poise----" "Sh-sh-h-h!" muttered Lethbridge, "the bell-mule is talking to them." "Art," said the poet, leaning over to look along the line of fragrant, fresh young beauty, "Art is an art." With which epigram he slowly closed his eyes. His daughters looked at him; a young woman expensively but not smartly gowned bent forward from the row behind. Her attitude was almost prayerful; her eyes burned. [Illustration: He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters two and two behind him.] "Art," continued the poet, opening his heavy lids with a large, sweet smile, "Art is above Art, but Art is never below Art. Art, to be Art, must be artless. That is a very precious thought--very, very precious. Thank you for understanding me--thank you." And he included in his large smile young Harrow, who had been unconsciously bending forward, hypnotized by the monotonous resonance of the poet's deep, rich voice. Now that the spell was broken, he sank back in his chair, looking at Lethbridge a little wildly. "Let me sit next--after the first act," began Lethbridge, coaxing; "they'll be watching the stage all the first act and you can look at 'em without being rude, and they'll do the same next act, and I can look at 'em, and perhaps they'll ask us what Art really is----" "Did you hear what that man said?" interrupted Harrow, recovering his voice. "_Did_ you?" "No; what?"