startled him.

"Dandelion wine!" it said. "Will you have a glass?"

He turned and saw an old gentleman with profuse white hair and
beard tottering into the hall.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Bleak," said the latter. "I was expecting
you."

"You are very kind," said the editor. "I fear you have the
advantage of me--I was told that Walt Whitman died in 1892--"

"Nonsense!" wheezed the other with a senile chuckle. He
straightened, ripped off his silver fringes, and appeared as the
stalwart Quimbleton himself.

"Forgive my precautions," he said. "I am surrounded by spies. I
have to be careful. Should some of my enemies learn that old Mr.
Monkbones of Caraway Street is the same as Virgil Quimbleton of
the Happiness Corporation, my life wouldn't be worth--well, a
glass of gooseberry brandy. Speaking of that, Have a little of the
dandelion wine." He pointed to the decanter.

Bleak poured himself a glass, and watched his host carefully
resume the hoary wig and whiskers. They passed into the garden, a
quiet green enclosure surrounded by brick walls and bright with
hollyhocks and other flowers. It was overlooked by a quaint jumble
of rear gables, tall chimneys and white-shuttered dormer windows.