Mr. Aram examined it uninterestedly. "Yes, that's my handwriting too."
He raised his head. His face wore an expression of patient politeness.

"Oh!" exclaimed the editor, suddenly, in some embarrassment. "I handed
you the wrong envelope. I beg your pardon. That envelope is the one in
which 'Bohemia' came."

The reporter gave a hardly perceptible start; his eyes were fixed on the
pattern of the rug at his feet, and the editor continued to examine the
papers in his hand. There was a moment's silence. From outside came the
noise of children playing in the street and the rapid rush of a passing
wagon.

When the two visitors raised their heads Mr. Aram was looking at them
strangely, and the fingers folded in his lap were twisting in and out.

"This Shakespeare Debating Club," said the editor, "where are its rooms,
Mr. Aram?"

"It has no rooms, now," answered the poet. "It has disbanded. It never
had any regular rooms; we just met about and read."

"I see--exactly," said the editor. "And the house on Seventh Avenue from
which your third poem was sent--did you reside there then, or have you
always lived here?"

"No, yes--I used to live there--I lived there when I wrote that poem."

The editor looked at the reporter and back at Mr. Aram. "It is a vacant