h, buck up!" says I. "It'll be your turn soon."

I was wonderin' how Virgie was goin' to simmer down enough to pass
Whity the chilly greetin'; for he's just bubblin' over with kind words
and comic little quips. But, say, he don't even try to shade it.

"Ah, Whity, my boy!" says he, extendin' the cordial paw. "Charming of
you to look me up once more, perfectly charming!"

"Rot!" growls Whity. "You know I was sent up here to do this blooming
spread of yours. What sort of fake is it, anyway?"

"Ha, ha! Same old Whity!" says Virgil, poundin' him hearty on the
shoulder. "But you're always welcome, my boy. As for the tea--well,
one of my little affairs, you know,--just a few friends dropping
in--feast of reason, flow of wit, all that sort of thing. You know how
to put it. Don't forget my costume--picked it up at a Trappist
monastery in the Pyrenees. I must give you some photos I've had taken
in it. Ah, another knight of the pencil?" and he glances inquirin' at
me.

"City Press," says Whity.

"Fine!" says Virgie, beamin'. "Well, you boys make yourselves quite at
home. I'll send Marie over with cigars and cigarettes. She'll help
you to describe any of the ladies' costumes you may care to mention.
Here's a list of the invited guests too. Now I must be stirring about.
_Au revoir_."

"Ass!" snarls Whity under his breath. "If I don't give him a roast,
though,--one of the veiled sarcastic kind that will get past! And we
must find some way of queering him with that rich widow."

"Goin' to be some contract, Whity, believe me!" says I. "Look how
she's taggin' him around!"

And, say, Cousin Inez sure had the scoopnet out for him! Every move he
makes she's right on his heels, gigglin' and simperin' at all his sappy
speeches and hangin' onto his arm part of the time. Folks was nudgin'
each other and pointin' her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up the
sort of reports that had set Old Hickory's teeth on edge.

T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin' the time of his life. He
exhibits some clay models, either dancin' girls or a squad of mounted
cops, I couldn't make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded to
read two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic. Cousin
Inez leads the applause. Then, strikin' a pose, he claps his hands,
the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chef
luggin' a tray with a whackin' big casserole on it.

"_Voila_!" sings out Virgie. "The bouillab