t of a poem I read the
other day----"

Her face paled, ever so slightly. "Yes?"

"Well, Perkins didn't write it, you know," Dick went on, hastily. "I did
it myself. Or, rather I found it, blowing around, outside, just as I said,
and I fixed it."

At length he became restless under the calm scrutiny of Elaine's clear
eyes. "I beg your pardon," he continued.

"Did you think," she asked, "that it was nice to make fun of a lady in
that way?"

"I didn't think," returned Dick, truthfully. "I never thought for a minute
that it was making fun of you, but only of that--that pup, Perkins," he
concluded, viciously.

"Under the circumstances," said Elaine, ignoring the epithet, "the silence
of Mr. Perkins has been very noble. I shall tell him so."

"Do," answered Dick, with difficulty. "He's ambling up to the
lunch-counter now." Mr. Chester went out by way of the window, swallowing
hard.

"I have just been told," said Miss St. Clair to the poet, "that
the--er--poem was not written by you, and I apologise for what I said."

Mr. Perkins bowed in acknowledgment. "It is a small matter," he said,
wearily, running his fingers through his hair. It was, indeed, compared
with deep sorrow of a penetrating kind, and a sleepless night, but Elaine
did not relish the comment.

"Were--were you restless in the night?" she asked, conventionally.

"I was. I did not sleep at all until after four o'clock, and then only for
a few moments."

"I'm sorry. Did--did you write anything?"

"I began an epic," answered the poet, touched, for the moment, by this
unexpected sympathy. "An epic in blank verse, on 'Disappointment.'"

"I'm sure it's beautiful," continued Elaine, coldly. "And that reminds me.
I have hunted through my room, in every possible place, and found
nothing."

A flood of painful emotion overwhelmed the poet, and he buried his face in
his hands. In a flash, Elaine was violently angry, though she could not
have told why. She marched out of the dining-room and slammed the door.
"Delicate, sensitive soul," she said to herself, scornfully. "Wants people
to hunt for money he thinks may be hidden in his room, and yet is so far
above sordidness that he can't hear it spoken of!"

Seeing Mr. Chester pacing back and forth moodily at some distance from the
house, Elaine rushed out to him. "Dick," she cried, "he _is_ a lobster!"

Dick's clouded face brightened. "Is he?" he asked, eagerly, knowing
instinctively whom she meant. "Elaine,