"Quite so. And--ah--do you happen to know who it was that--ah--presented your tickets and occupied the seats this afternoon?" "Why, I suppose it was two young men in our employ--Mr. Lethbridge, who appraises property for us, and Mr. Harrow, one of our brokers. May I ask why?" For a long while the poet sat there, eyes squeezed tightly closed as though in bodily anguish. Then he opened one of them: "They are--ah--quite penniless, I presume?" "They have prospects," said West briefly. "Why?" The poet rose; something of his old attitude returned; he feebly gazed at a priceless Massero vase, made a half-hearted attempt to join thumb and forefinger, then rambled toward the door, where two spotless flunkies attended with his hat and overcoat. "Mr. Guilford," said West, following, a trifle perplexed and remorseful, "I should be very--er--extremely happy to subscribe to the New Arts Theater--if that is what you wished." "Thank you," said the poet absently as a footman invested him with a seal-lined coat. "Is there anything more I could do for you, Mr. Guilford?" The poet's abstracted gaze rested on him, then shifted. "I--I don't feel very well," said the poet hoarsely, sitting down in a hall-seat. Suddenly he began to cry, fatly. Nobody did anything; the stupefied footman gaped; West looked, walked nervously the length of the hall, looked again, and paced the inlaid floor to and fro, until the bell at the door sounded and a messenger-boy appeared with a note scribbled on a yellow telegraph blank: "Lethbridge and I just married and madly happy. Will be on hand Monday, sure. Can't you advance us three months' salary? "HARROW." "Idiots!" said West. Then, looking up: "What are you waiting for, boy?" "Me answer," replied the messenger calmly. "Oh, you were told to bring back an answer?" "Ya-as." "Then give me your pencil, my infant Chesterfield." And West scribbled on the same yellow blank: "Checks for you on your desks Monday. Congratulations. I'll see you through, you damfools. "WEST." "Here's a quarter for you," observed West, eying the messenger. "T'anks. Gimme the note." West glanced at the moist, fat poet; then suddenly that intuition which is bred in men of his stamp set him thinking. And presently he tentatively added two and two. "Mr. Guilford," he said, "I wonder whether this note--and my answer to it--concerns you." The poet used his handkerchief, adjusted a pair of glasses, and blinked at the penciled scrawl. Twice he read it; then, like the full sun breaking through a drizzle--like the glory of a search-light dissolving a sticky fog, _the_ smile of smiles illuminated everything: footmen, messenger, financier.