"Certainly," said Wayne politely, following Guilford into the house. They entered a hall; there was absolutely nothing in the hall except a small table on which reposed a single daisy in a glass of water. "Simplicity," breathed Guilford--"a single blossom against a background of nothing at all. You follow me, Mr. Wayne?" "Not--exactly----" The poet smiled a large, tender smile, and, with inverted thumb, executed a gesture as though making several spots in the air. "The concentration of composition," he explained; "the elimination of complexity; the isolation of the concrete in the center of the abstract; something in the midst of nothing. It is a very precious thought, Mr. Wayne." "Certainly," muttered Wayne; and they moved on. "This," said the poet, "is what I call my den." Wayne, not knowing what to say, sidled around the walls. It was almost bare of furniture; what there was appeared to be of the slab variety. "I call my house the house beautiful," murmured Guilford with his large, sweet smile. "Beauty is simplicity; beauty is unconsciousness; beauty is the child of elimination. A single fly in an empty room is beautiful to me, Mr. Wayne." "They carry germs," muttered Wayne, but the poet did not hear him and led the way to another enormous room, bare of everything save for eight thick and very beautiful Kazak rugs on the polished floor. [Illustration: "Simplicity," breathed Guilford--"a single blossom against a background of nothing at all."] "My children's bedroom," he whispered solemnly. "You don't mean to say they sleep on those Oriental rugs!" stammered Wayne. "They do," murmured the poet. The tender sweetness of his ample smile was overpowering--like too much bay rum after shaving. "Sparta, Mr. Wayne, Sparta! And the result? My babes are perfect, physically, spiritually. Elimination wrought the miracle; yonder they sleep, innocent as the Graces, with all the windows open, clothed in moonlight or starlight, as the astronomical conditions may be. At the break of dawn they are afield, simply clothed, free limbed, unhampered by the tawdry harness of degenerate civilization. And as they wander through the verdure," he added with rapt enthusiasm, "plucking shy blossoms, gathering simples and herbs and vegetables for our bountiful and natural repast, they sing as they go, and every tremulous thrill of melody falls like balm on a father's heart." The overpowering sweetness of his smile drugged Wayne. Presently he edged toward the door, and the poet followed, a dreamy radiance on his features as though emanating from sacred inward meditation. They sat down on the veranda; Wayne fumbled for his cigar-case, but his unnerved fingers fell away; he dared not smoke. "About--about that business matter," he ventured feebly; but the poet raised his plump white hand. "You are my guest," he said graciously. "While you are my guest nothing shall intrude to cloud our happiness."