Straws, editor and rhymster, was seated on the semi-Oriental,
semi-French gallery of the little _cafe_, called the Veranda, sipping
his absinthe, smoking a cheroot and watching the rain drip from the
roof of the balcony, spatter on the iron railing and form a shower
bath for the pedestrians who ventured from beneath the protecting
shelter. Before him was paper, partly covered with well-nigh illegible
versification, and a bottle of ink, while a goose-quill, tool of the
tuneful Nine, was expectantly poised in mid air.

"Confound it!" he said to himself. "I can't write in the attic any
more, since Celestina has gone, and apparently I can't write away from
it. Since she left, the dishes haven't been washed; my work has run
down at the heels, and everything is going to the dogs generally. And
now this last thing has upset me quite. 'In the twinkling of an eye,'
says the sacred Book. But I must stop thinking, or I'll never complete
this poem. Now to make my mind a blank; a fitting receptacle to
receive inspiration!"

The bard's figure swayed uncertainly on the stool. In the lively race
through a sonnet, it was often, of late, a matter of doubt with
Straws, whether Bacchus or Calliope would prevail at the finish, and
to-night the jocund god had had a perceptible start. "Was ever a poet
so rhyme-fuddled?" muttered the impatient versifier. "An inebriating
trade, this poetizing!"--and he reached for the absinthe. "If I am not
careful, these rhymes will put me under the table!"

"Nappy, eh?" said a voice at his elbow, as a dripping figure
approached, deposited his hat on one chair and himself in another. The
newcomer had a long, Gothic face and a merry-wise expression.

The left hand of the poet waved mechanically, imposing silence; the
quill dived suddenly to paper, trailed twice across it, and then was
cast aside, as Straws looked up.

"Yes," he replied to the other's interrogation. "It's all on account
of Celestina's leaving me. You ought to see my room. Even a poet's
soul revolts against it. So what can I do, save make my home amid
convivial haunts?" The poet sighed. "And you, Phazma; how are you
feeling?"

"Sober as a judge!"

"Then you shall judge of this last couplet," exclaimed Straws quickly.
"It has cost me much effort. The editor wanted it. It seemed almost
too sad a subject for my halting muse. There are some things which
should be sacred even from us, Phazma. But what is to be done when the
editor-in-chief