"No offence--none at all, I assure you, Mr.--Mr. Poet! I was only taken by surprise. One doesn't often assist a poet in catching his works!" He laughed again, a contented after-dinner laugh. Then, as the young man fell behind him quietly, the incident being over, an idle desire for company prompted him to delay his own pace. "Do you write much? Get it printed? Good publisher?" he inquired genially. Few persons could resist Lester Delafield's smile: his very butler warmed to it, and the woman who retained her reserve under it he had never met. Again the young man blushed. "Published? No, sir; I never dared to see--I don't know if it's worth being printed," he said. "But you think it's pretty good, eh? I'll bet you do. I used to. Let me see it. I'll tell you if it's worth anything." They had turned into a quieter cross-street; the wind had passed them by. Standing under a street-light, benevolently amused at his impulse, Delafield tucked his stick under his arm, uncreased the paper, and noted the title of the poem aloud: _To the Moon in a Stormy Night._ His eyebrows lifted; he glanced quizzically at the young man, but met such an earnest, searching look, so restrained, yet so quivering, so terrified, yet so brave, that his heart softened and he read on in silence. A minute passed, two, three, and four. The man read silently, the boy waited breathless in suspense. The noisy, crowding city seemed to sweep by them, leaving them stranded on this little point of time. Mr. Delafield raised his eyes and regarded the boy thoughtfully. "You say you wrote this?" he demanded. "Yes, sir." "When did you write it?" "Last night." "Have you any more like it?" "I don't know if it's like it. I've got quite a good deal more. What do you----" He could get no further. Drops of perspiration started from his forehead. His mouth was drawn flat with anxiety. "This poetry," said Delafield, with a carefully impersonal calm, "is very good. It is remarkably good. It is stunning, in fact. '_And moored at last in some pale bay of dawn_'--why did you stop there? Isn't that rather abrupt?" "That was when it ended. Do you really think----" "I don't think anything about it. I know. You have a future before you, my young friend. I should like to see--Good Lord, what is it?" For the boy had twined his arms around the lamp-post and was slowly sinking to the pavement. His face was ghastly white. Delafield grasped his arm, and as their eyes met, the older man drew a quick breath and scowled. "It's not because--you're not--when did you have your lunch?" he demanded shortly. The boy smiled weakly. "And your breakfast?" "Oh, I had _that_--quite a little--really I did!" he half whispered. Delafield got him on his feet and around the corner to a restaurant. As they entered, the smell of the food weakened him again, and he staggered against his friend, begging his pardon helplessly. "Soup--and hurry it up, it's immaterial what kind," the host commanded.