lled a "Thought." Sometimes it was a demonstration
of the priceless value of "nothings"; sometimes it was a naive
suggestion that no house could afford to be without an "Art"-rocker with
Arr Noovo insertions. Such indispensable luxuries were on sale
up-stairs. Again, he performed a "necklace of precious sounds"--in other
words, some verses upon various topics, nature, woodchucks, and the
dinkified in Art.

And it was upon one of these occasions that Aphrodite ran away.

Aphrodite, the sweet, the reasonable, the self-possessed--Aphrodite ran
away, having without any apparent reason been stricken with an
overpowering aversion for civilization and Arr Noovo.

[Illustration]

XIII

[Illustration]

At the poet's third Franco-American Conference that afternoon the room
was still vibrating with the echoes of Aphrodite's harp accompaniment to
her own singing, and gushing approbation had scarcely ceased, when the
poet softly rose and stood with eyes half-closed as though concentrating
all the sweetness within him upon the surface of his pursed lips.

A wan young man whose face figured only as a by-product of his hair
whispered "Hush!" and several people, who seemed to be more or less out
of drawing, assumed attitudes which emphasized the faulty draftsmanship.

"La Poesie!" breathed the poet; "Kesker say la poesie?"

"La poesie--say la vee!" murmured a young woman with profuse teeth.

"Wee, wee, say la vee!" cried several people triumphantly.

"Nong!" sighed the poet, spraying the hushed air with sweetness, "nong!
Say pas le vee; say l'Immortalitay!"

After which the poet resumed his seat, and the by-product read, in
French verse, "An Appreciation" of the works of Wilhelmina Ganderbury
McNutt.

And that was the limit of the Franco portion of the Conference; the
remainder being plain American.

Aphrodite, resting on her tall gilded harp, looked sullenly straight
before her. Somebody lighted a Chinese joss-stick, perhaps to kill the
aroma of defunct cigarettes.

"Verse," said the poet, opening his heavy lids and gazing around him
with the lambent-eyed wonder of a newly-wakened ram, "verse is a
necklace of tinted sounds strung idly, yet lovingly, upon stray tinseled
threads of thought.... Thank you for understanding; thank you."

The by-product in the corner of the studio gathered arms and legs into a
series of acute angles, and writhed; a lady ornamented with cheek-bones
well sketched in, covered her