'It is a boon,' said Dunckley, coming to the aid of his floundering
loved one.

'Exactly,' said Lady Durwent with a sigh of relief. 'Madame Lucia
Carlotti--Mr. Selwyn of New York.'

'_Buona sera, signora_.'

'_Buona sera, signore_.'

He stooped low and pressed a light kiss on the Neapolitan's hand, thus
taking the most direct route obtainable by an Anglo-Saxon to the good
graces of a woman of Italy.

'How well you speak Italian!' cooed Madame Carlotti; 'so--like one of
us.'

The American bowed. It was rarely he achieved a reputation with so
little effort.

The remaining introductions were effected; the clock struck
eight-thirty; and there followed an awkward silence, born of an
absolute unanimity of thought.

'Of course, you two authors,' said Lady Durwent, forcing a smile, 'knew
of each other, anyway. It's like asking H. G. Wells if he ever heard
of Mark Twain.'

The smile in the American's eyes widened. 'Lady Durwent flatters me,'
he said. 'I am not widely known in my own country, and can hardly
expect that you should know of me on this side of the Atlantic.'

'What,' said Mr. Dunckley--'what does New York think of "Precipitate
Thoughts"?'

The American considered quickly. He wished that in conversation, as
well as in writing, people would use inverted commas.

'Whose precipitate thoughts?' he ventured.

'Mine,' said H. S. D., with ill-concealed importance.

'Oh yes, of course,' said Selwyn, wondering how any one so stationary
as the other could project anything precipitate. 'New York was keenly
interested.'

'Ah,' said the English author benignly, 'it is satisfactory to hear
that. Of course, the great difference between there and here is that
in New York one impresses: in London one is impressed.'

An ominous silence followed this epigrammatic wisdom (which Dunckley
had just heard from the lips of a poet who had succeeded in writing
both an American and an English publishing house into bankruptcy) while
the various members of the group pursued their trains of thought along
the devious routes of their different mentalities.

'Dear me!' said Lady Durwent anxiously, 'what _can_ have detained'----

'MR. JOHNSTON SMYTH.'

With a jerky action of the knees, the futurist briskly entered the room
with all the easy confidence of a famous comedian following on the
heels of a chorus announcing his arrival. He looked particularly long
and cadaverous in an abrupt, sporting-artistic, blue jacket