dst of nothing. It is a very precious thought, Mr.
Wayne."

"Certainly," muttered Wayne; and they moved on.

"This," said the poet, "is what I call my den."

Wayne, not knowing what to say, sidled around the walls. It was almost
bare of furniture; what there was appeared to be of the slab variety.

"I call my house the house beautiful," murmured Guilford with his large,
sweet smile. "Beauty is simplicity; beauty is unconsciousness; beauty is
the child of elimination. A single fly in an empty room is beautiful to
me, Mr. Wayne."

"They carry germs," muttered Wayne, but the poet did not hear him and
led the way to another enormous room, bare of everything save for eight
thick and very beautiful Kazak rugs on the polished floor.

[Illustration:
"Simplicity," breathed Guilford--"a single blossom against
a background of nothing at all."]

"My children's bedroom," he whispered solemnly.

"You don't mean to say they sleep on those Oriental rugs!" stammered
Wayne.

"They do," murmured the poet. The tender sweetness of his ample smile
was overpowering--like too much bay rum after shaving. "Sparta, Mr.
Wayne, Sparta! And the result? My babes are perfect, physically,
spiritually. Elimination wrought the miracle; yonder they sleep,
innocent as the Graces, with all the windows open, clothed in moonlight
or starlight, as the astronomical conditions may be. At the break of
dawn they are afield, simply clothed, free limbed, unhampered by the
tawdry harness of degenerate civilization. And as they wander through
the verdure," he added with rapt enthusiasm, "plucking shy blossoms,
gathering simples and herbs and vegetables for our bountiful and natural
repast, they sing as they go, and every tremulous thrill of melody falls
like balm on a father's heart." The overpowering sweetness of his smile
drugged Wayne. Presently he edged toward the door, and the poet
followed, a dreamy radiance on his features as though emanating from
sacred inward meditation.

They sat down on the veranda; Wayne fumbled for his cigar-case, but his
unnerved fingers fell away; he dared not smoke.

"About--about that business matter," he ventured feebly; but the poet
raised his plump white hand.

"You are my guest," he said graciously. "While you are my guest nothing
shall intrude to cloud our happiness."

Perplexed, almost muddled, Wayne strove in vain to find a reason for the
elimination of the matter that had interrupted his cruise and broug