One morning in spring he left New Utrecht in a mood of perplexity, for to-day his even routine was in danger of interruption.  Halfway across the bridge Stockton paused in some confusion of spirit to look down on the shining river and consider his course.

A year or so before this time, in gathering copy for his poetry articles, he had first come across the name of Finsbury Verne in an English journal at the head of some exquisite verses.  From time to time he found more of this writer’s lyrics in the English magazines, and at length he had ventured a graceful article of appreciation.  It happened that he was the first in this country to recognize Verne’s talent, and to his great delight he had one day received a very charming letter from the poet himself, thanking him for his understanding criticism.

Stockton, though a shy and reticent man, had the friendliest nature in the world, and some underlying spirit of kinship in Verne’s letter prompted him to warm response.  Thus began a correspondence which was a remarkable pleasure to the lonely reviewer, who knew no literary men, although his life was passed among books.  Hardly dreaming that they would ever meet, he had insisted on a promise that if Verne should ever visit the States he would make New Utrecht his headquarters.  And now, on this very morning, there had come a wireless message via Seagate, saying that Verne was on a ship which would dock that afternoon.

The dilemma may seem a trifling one, but to Stockton’s sensitive nature it was gross indeed.  He and his wife knew that they could offer but little to make the poet’s visit charming.  New Utrecht, on the way to Coney Island, is not a likely perching ground for poets; the house was small, shabby, and the spare room had long ago been made into a workshop for the two boys, where they built steam engines and pasted rotogravure pictures from the Sunday editions on the walls.  The servant was an enormous coloured mammy, with a heart of ruddy gold, but in appearance she was pure Dahomey.  The bathroom plumbing was out of order, the drawing-room rug was fifteen years old, even the little lawn in front of the house needed trimming, and the gardener would not be round for several days.  And Verne had given them only a few hours’ notice.  How like a poet!

In his letters Stockton had innocently boasted of the pleasant time they would have when the writer should come to visit.  He had spoken of evenings beside the fire when they would talk for hours of the things that interest literary men.  What would Verne think when he found the hearth only a gas log, and one that had a peculiarly offensive odour?  This sickly sweetish smell had become in years of intimacy very dear to Stockton, but he could hardly expect a poet who lived in Well Walk, Hampstead (O Shades of Keats!), and wrote letters from a London literary club, to understand that sort of thing.  Why, the man was a grandson of Jules Verne, and probably had been accustomed to refined surroundings all his life.  And now he was doomed to plumb the sub-fuse depths of New Utrecht!