She wa'n't smilin' any when she drifts out half an hour later. She's
some flushed behind the ears, and her complexion was a little streaked
under the eyes. She holds her chin up defiant, though, and slams the
brass gate behind her. She'd hardly caught the elevator before there
comes a snappy call for me on the buzzer.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, glarin' at me savage, "who is this T. Virgil
Bunn?"

Almost had me tongue-tied for a minute, he shoots it at me so sudden.
"Eh?" says I. "T. Virgil? Why, he's the sculptor poet."

"So I gather from this thing," says he, wavin' a thin book bound in
baby blue and gold. "But what in the name of Sardanapalus and Xenophon
is a sculptor poet, anyway?"

"Why, it's--it's--well, that's the way the papers always give it," says
I. "Beyond that I pass."

"Humph!" grunts Old Hickory. "Then perhaps you'll tell me if this is
poetry. Listen!


"'Like necklaces of diamonds hung
About my lady sweet,
So do we string our votive area
All up and down each street.
They shine upon the young and old,
The fair, the sad, the grim, the gay;
Who gather here from far and near