"At last I have found you," repeated my curious acquaintance. "For all your laughter you are unhappy. You are consumed with yearning, even as I am. Pray accept a rose." With a murmured repetition of his formula he gave he his last flower. His manner was earnest and the girl had immediately rejected the assumption that we were mocking her. "This is a mistake," she explained, hesitating about the rose. "I don't think you know who I am." "A lady of high degree, I am sure," responded Keats gallantly. There was a peculiar quaintness about his English, which like his name, took me back to the early nineteenth century. The coincidence of his name did not strike me as unusual, because the telephone directory is full of such parallels. "No high degree about me," laughed the girl. "I'm a saleslady at Marmelstein's, that's all. What you said about being unhappy is true sometimes. When you came up I was just thinking." Her voice with its overtone of sadness sounded in the semi-darkness like the faint tremolo of mandolins serenading in the distance. "But there need be no unhappiness," contended Keats. "We must shut out from our sight everything but beauty, pure beauty. At this moment I am supremely happy." He looked at her. There was an unreality about him for which I could not account. Like a mirage of the park he seemed. In a twinkle of the incandescents, I thought, he might vanish. The girl from Marmelstein's looked at him as if fascinated. Romance had come and touched her heart with a magic wand. She sniffed at the rose pensively. "I couldn't just tell you why I was feeling queer. Marmelstein's is a nice place, honest. You see all sorts of people during the day and it's interesting to work there. But there's something missing--I don't know what." "Beauty, my lady, beauty," declared Keats. Out of the shadows a fourth form had materialized, a thickset man who approached us with a firm stride. He patted my friend gently on the shoulder. "You're a bad boy, John," he reproached, "giving me the slip that way. I had the time of my life looking for you. The moment my back was turned you vamoosed from the waiting room. That wasn't kind. If I hadn't a known how fond you wuz of roses, I would a been stumped, stumped for good. I trailed you by them roses." The girl sensed that there was something wrong. "Lady, farewell," said Keats. With a little moan she saw him being led off. "What's wrong?" I asked the intruder. "Bugs on beauty, that's all. Thinks he's a guy named John Keats who wrote poems. Harmless case. Wouldn't hurt a fly. I was bringing him over to see his mother when he give me the slip. Gee, but I can breathe easy now." "A thing of beauty is a joy forever," declared the spirit of Keats. "Sure, sure," said the attendant, lighting a cigar. When I turned to leave the park the girl from Marmelstein's came up to me. "What happened?" she inquired. Her fists were clenched and she was breathing heavily. I explained.