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Verne’s eyes shone with unaffected pleasure at the meeting, and he presented the reviewer to his wife and the children, two boys and two girls. The two boys, aged about ten and eight, immediately uttered cryptic remarks which Stockton judged were addressed to him.

“Castorian!” cried the larger boy, looking at the yellow suit.

“Polluxite!” piped the other in the same breath.

Mrs. Verne, in some embarrassment, explained that the boys were in the throes of a new game they had invented on the voyage. They had created two imaginary countries, named in honour of the goldfish, and it was now their whim to claim for their respective countries any person or thing that struck their fancy. “Castoria was first,” said Mrs. Verne, “so you must consider yourself a citizen of that nation.”

Somewhat shamefaced at this sudden honour, Mr. Stockton turned to the poet. “You’re all coming home with me, aren’t you?” he said. “I got your telegram this morning. We’d be delighted to have you.”

“It’s awfully good of you,” said the poet, “but as a matter of fact we’re going straight on to the country to-morrow morning. My wife has some relatives in Yonkers, wherever they are, and she and the children are going to stay with them. I’ve got to go up to Harvard to give some lectures.”

A rush of cool, sweet relief bathed Stockton’s brow.

“Why, I’m disappointed you’re going right on,” he stammered. “Mrs. Stockton and I were hoping–“

“My dear fellow, we could never impose such a party on your hospitality,” said Verne. “Perhaps you can recommend us to some quiet hotel where we can stay the night.”

Like all New Yorkers, Stockton could hardly think of the name of any hotel when asked suddenly. At first he said the Astor House, and then remembered that it had been demolished years before. At last he recollected that a brother of his from Indiana had once stayed at the Obelisk.

After the customs formalities were over–not without embarrassment, as Mr. Verne’s valise when opened displayed several pairs of bright red union suits and a half-empty bottle of brandy–Stockton convoyed them to a taxi. Noticing the frayed sleeve of the poet’s ulster he felt quite ashamed of the aggressive newness of his clothes. And when the visitors whirled away, after renewed promises for a meeting a little later in the spring, he stood for a moment in a kind of daze. Then he hurried toward the nearest telephone booth.

As the Vernes sat at dinner that night in the Abyssinian Room of the Obelisk Hotel, the poet said to his wife: “It would have been delightful to spend a few days with the Stocktons.”

“My dear,” said she, “I wouldn’t have these wealthy Americans see how shabby we are for anything. The children are positively in rags, and your clothes–well, I don’t know what they’ll think at Harvard. You know if this lecture trip doesn’t turn out well we shall be simply bankrupt.”

The poet sighed. “I believe Stockton has quite a charming place in the country near New York,” he said.

“That may be so,” said Mrs. Verne. “But did you ever see such clothes? He looked like a canary.”