The times., 1893-12-01
CHAPTER VIII.

Delatole' apartments were III tne " III
versity building. He loved the weather
stained pile because it was old-so little
was old in New York. He loved the
gloomy halls and the high. dusty win
dows. His rooms were medley where
discord in the extreme blended into a
startling harmony Curiosity shops had
been ransacked for treasures, and he had
even paid flying visits to ship chambers
shops upon the wharves in the desire tc
collect antagonistic bits. Fish nets that
had the salt Of the sea woven into their
fibers took the place Of more conven-
tional hangings Mugs of every size and
the most fanciful shapes. some of them
very old. hung in line around the man.
tel, each a mirror for the cracking fire
below. Divans swathed in Turkish stuffs
jutted from shadowy angles and held
palpitating CLEANS from hanging lamps
in their oriental. bespangled folds. His
bed had curtains OF pale tapestry fra
grant as spice and looped up by spears.
1t was screened by a leathery Indian mat
resembling the back of a huge turtle and
suspended by hooks from the ceiling.
bcldUOlO udu Lictuy oieCo W llo CudItC
ter. He was rake, a parasite. but he
was also genuine artist and loved his
work. He loved the somber dreams
which stole in upon his solitude in this
old house. in this old street. They tipped
his pen with cabalistic power. When
the wind howled and the snow fell. the
drafty passages seemed trodden by
ghostly feet, and fancy often crossed his
threshold. garbed in some fluttering rag
of the dead years. Sometimes he had
but to half shut his eyes. and looking
across his untidy desk to the limits of
the spacious square beyond see the roof
tops stretch away into sun kissed des-
ert, and the hanging smoke become the
white tents of waiting army.
Yes, he loved the place. but it must
go and his life there be remembered as
dream. On this November afternoon
while he waited for Tom he held in his
hand, which was trembling with rage, a
notice to leave these self same apart
ments or pay very large sum in a very
short time. Curious that man should
prefer as tenant some commonplace
fellow with money instead of brilliant
critic who made cigarette lighters of
his dunning letters! A few oaths that
reduced creation to chaos, and a few
puffs of cigarette cleared his brain. He
sat back to think.
So much money had gone at the gam
bling table; so much on the races; so
much in speculation. And the result?
Enormous bills flowing in from every
quarter, chief among them an appalling
array of figures for more than years
rent.
"There's not hole or corner where
can borrow third of it," he exclaimed
impatiently, and tightening the girdle Of
the eastern robe Unfolding his slight figure
he strolled to the window, and through
the tangle of bare branches looked across
at the snowy grass plots of Washington
square.
He scarcely moved for many minutes.
Was there nothing he could do? Nothing!
One plan after another was dismissed as
impracticable until his eyes fell upon
Tom coming across the park, the orange
light streaming from the west behind
him, making moving silhouette of his
vigorous figure.
Delatole's eyes became inscrutable, the
smoke wreaths curled furiously around
his head, and he caressed his lip with the
point of his tongue, as if he had literally
tasted n palatable thought.
"You fool! Why didn't you think Of
him beforet' he said aloud and burst out
laughing.
When the sedate English valet, who
had almost forgotten the look Of Ameri-
can money, opened the door for Tom,
his host strolled from the window with
hands outstretched.
"Only half an hour later he said air.
lily in his drawing voice. mot bad for
a new celebrity. Did you see The Chal-
lenge this morning? Good-wasn't it?
Here, read this"
He picked up some loosely scattered
pages covered with his delicate, cramped
writing and pushed them into Toms
hands.
"This will be in on Thursday morn
ing. You see, it's minute review Of
the play. You certainly can't complain"
Tom carried them to the window and
turned one rustling page after another.
Glorious words were these-magnetic,
intense. And how true!-how marvel
ously truel His own intimate struggles
in writing the play had been OWNED by
the keen critical understanding of the
writer. The lines flowed delicately, sub
tly, and were sweet as incense. They
throbbed in his brain; his eyes lightened.
So / 81