2th of
November, he had been re-absorbed by the Grey-Matter Advertising
Agency, with whom he had been connected for several years, and where
his sound and vivacious qualities were highly esteemed. It was in the
course of drumming up post-war business that he had swung so far out of
his ordinary orbit as to call on Roger Mifflin. Perhaps these
explanations should have been made earlier.

At any rate, Aubrey woke that Saturday morning, about the time Titania
began to dust the pavement-boxes, in no very world-conquering humour.
As it was a half-holiday, he felt no compunction in staying away from
the office. The landlady, a motherly soul, sent him up some coffee and
scrambled eggs, and insisted on having a doctor in to look at his
damage. Several stitches were taken, after which he had a nap. He
woke up at noon, feeling better, though his head still ached
abominably. Putting on a dressing gown, he sat down in his modest
chamber, which was furnished chiefly with a pipe-rack, ash trays, and a
set of O. Henry, and picked up one of his favourite volumes for a bit
of solace. We have hinted that Mr. Gilbert was not what is called
"literary." His reading was mostly of the newsstand sort, and Printer's
Ink, that naive journal of the publicity professions. His favourite
diversion was luncheon at the Advertising Club where he would pore,
fascinated, over displays of advertising booklets, posters, and
pamphlets with such titles as Tell Your Story in Bold-Face. He was
accustomed to remark that "the fellow who writes the Packard ads has
Ralph Waldo Emerson skinned three ways from the Jack." Yet much must be
forgiven this young man for his love of O. Henry. He knew, what many
other happy souls have found, that O. Henry is one of those rare and
gifted tellers of tales who can be read at all times. No matter how
weary, how depressed, how shaken in morale, one can always find
enjoyment in that master romancer of the Cabarabian Nights. "Don't
talk to me of Dickens' Christmas Stories," Aubrey said to himself,
recalling his adventure in Brooklyn. "I'll bet O. Henry's Gift of the
Magi beats anything Dick ever laid pen to. What a shame he died
without finishing that Christmas story in Rolling Stones! I wish some
boss writer like Irvin Cobb or Edna Ferber would take a hand at
finishing it. If I were an editor I'd hire someone to wind up that
yarn. It's a crime to have a good story like that lying around half
written."

He was