lightly, like a flower, and played at literature as he played tennis,
with swerve and speed? Bolles was a bachelor, the author of a successful
comedy, and a member of the smart literary club which was over the
reviewer's horizon, although in the great ocean of letters the humourist
was no more than a surf bather. Stockton shook his head. No one but a
married man and an unsuccessful author could understand his trouble.

"A touch of asthma," he fibbed shyly. "I always have it at this time of
year."

"Come and have some lunch," said the other. "We'll go up to the club and
have some ale. That'll put you on your feet."

"Thanks, ever so much," said Stockton, "but I can't do it to-day. Got to
make up my page. I tell you what, though--"

He hesitated, and flushed a little.

"Say it," said Bolles kindly.

"Verne is in town to-day; the English poet, you know. Grandson of old
Jules Verne. I'm going to put him up at my house. I wish you'd take him
around to the club for lunch some day while he's here. He ought to meet
some of the men there. I've been corresponding with him for a long time,
and I--I'm afraid I rather promised to take him round there, as though I
were a member, you know."

"Great snakes!" cried Bolles. "Verne? the author of 'Candle Light'? And
you're going to put him up? You lucky devil. Why, the man's bigger than
Masefield. Take him to lunch--I should say I will; Why, I'll put him in