"I shall be punctual."
The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke.
"I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in
you."
The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere
lips of this arbiter of literary elegance.
An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features.
"I am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say.
"I think it is quite amazing, but at present," here Clarke drew out a
watch set with jewels, "I am afraid I must bid you good-bye."
He held Ernest's hand for a moment in a firm genial grasp, then turned
away briskly, while the boy remained standing open-mouthed. The crowd
jostling against him carried him almost off his feet, but his eyes
followed far into the night the masterful figure of Reginald Clarke,
toward whom he felt himself drawn with every fiber of his body and the
warm enthusiasm of his generous youth.
II
With elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight,
Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stretched out before
him, bathed in light and pulsating with life.
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