“It’s awfully good of you,” said the poet, “but as a matter of fact we’re going straight on to the country to-morrow morning.  My wife has some relatives in Yonkers, wherever they are, and she and the children are going to stay with them.  I’ve got to go up to Harvard to give some lectures.”

A rush of cool, sweet relief bathed Stockton’s brow.

“Why, I’m disappointed you’re going right on,” he stammered.  “Mrs. Stockton and I were hoping—­”

“My dear fellow, we could never impose such a party on your hospitality,” said Verne.  “Perhaps you can recommend us to some quiet hotel where we can stay the night.”

Like all New Yorkers, Stockton could hardly think of the name of any hotel when asked suddenly.  At first he said the Astor House, and then remembered that it had been demolished years before.  At last he recollected that a brother of his from Indiana had once stayed at the Obelisk.

After the customs formalities were over—­not without embarrassment, as Mr. Verne’s valise when opened displayed several pairs of bright red union suits and a half-empty bottle of brandy—­Stockton convoyed them to a taxi.  Noticing the frayed sleeve of the poet’s ulster he felt quite ashamed of the aggressive newness of his clothes.  And when the visitors whirled away, after renewed promises for a meeting a little later in the spring, he stood for a moment in a kind of daze.  Then he hurried toward the nearest telephone booth.

As the Vernes sat at dinner that night in the Abyssinian Room of the Obelisk Hotel, the poet said to his wife:  “It would have been delightful to spend a few days with the Stocktons.”

“My dear,” said she, “I wouldn’t have these wealthy Americans see how shabby we are for anything.  The children are positively in rags, and your clothes—­well, I don’t know what they’ll think at Harvard.  You know if this lecture trip doesn’t turn out well we shall be simply bankrupt.”

The poet sighed.  “I believe Stockton has quite a charming place in the country near New York,” he said.

“That may be so,” said Mrs. Verne.  “But did you ever see such clothes?  He looked like a canary.”

DON MARQUIS

There is nothing more pathetic than the case of the author who is the victim of a supposedly critical essay.  You hold him in the hollow of your hand.  You may praise him for his humour when he wants to be considered a serious and saturnine dog.  You may extol his songs of war and passion when he yearns to be esteemed a light, jovial merryandrew with never a care in the world save the cellar plumbing.  You may utterly misrepresent him, and hang some albatross round his neck that will be offensive to him forever.  You may say that he hails from Brooklyn Heights when the fact is that he left there two years ago and now lives in Port Washington.  You may even (for instance) call him stout....