are
sojourning in this clamorous city. Come and let us talk, soul to soul,
heart to heart; come and partake of what simples we have. Set the day,
the hour. I thank you for understanding me."

"The hour," replied Harrow, "will be about five P.M. on Monday
afternoon.... You see, we are going out now to--to----"

"To marry each other," whispered Lissa with all her sweet fearlessness.
"Oh, dear! there goes that monotonous piano and we'll be blocking
people's view!"

The poet tried to rise upon his great flat feet, but he was wedged too
tightly; he strove to speak, to call after them, but the loud thumping
notes of the piano drowned his voice.

"Chlorippe! Dione! Philodice! Tell them to stop! Run after them and stay
them!" panted the poet.

"_You_ go!" pouted Dione.

"No, I don't want to," explained Chlorippe, "because the curtain is
rising."

"I'll go," sighed Philodice, rising to her slender height and moving up
the aisle as the children of queens moved once upon a time. She came
back presently, saying: "Dear me, they're dreadfully in love, and they
have driven away in two hansoms."

"Gone!" wheezed the poet.

"Quite," said Philodice, staring at the stage and calmly folding her
smooth little hands.

[Illustration]

X

[Illustration]

When the curtain at last descended upon the parting attitudes of the
players the poet arose with an alacrity scarcely to be expected in a
gentleman of his proportions. Two and two his big, healthy
daughters--there remained but four now--followed him to the lobby. When
he was able to pack all four into a cab he did so and sent them home
without ceremony; then, summoning another vehicle, gave the driver the
directions and climbed in.

Half an hour later he was deposited under the bronze shelter of the
porte-cochere belonging to an extremely expensive mansion overlooking
the park; and presently, admitted, he prowled ponderously and softly
about an over-gilded rococo reception-room. But all anxiety had now fled
from his face; he coyly nipped the atmosphere at intervals as various
portions of the furniture attracted his approval; he stood before a
splendid canvas of Goya and pushed his thumb at it; he moused and
prowled and peeped and snooped, and his smile grew larger and larger and
sweeter and sweeter, until--dare I say it!--a low smooth chuckle, all
but noiseless, rippled the heavy cheeks of the poet; and, raising his
eyes, he beheld a stocky, fashionably-dressed