he staircase,
"are James Harrow and Henry Lethbridge. I wish there had been three----"

"Harrow! Lethbridge!" gasped Wayne. "When"--he turned helplessly to the
poet--"when did they do this?"

Through the gay babble of voices and amid cries and interruptions, Wayne
managed to comprehend the story. He tried to speak, but everybody except
the poet laughed and chatted, and the poet, suffused now with a sort of
sad sweetness, waved his hand in slow unctuous waves until even the
footmen's eyes protruded.

"It's all right," said Wayne, raising his voice; "it's topsyturvy and
irregular, but it's all right. I've known Harrow and Leth--For Heaven's
sake, Dione, don't kiss me like that; I want to talk!--You're hugging me
too hard, Philodice. Oh, Lord! _will_ you stop chattering all together!
I--I--Do you want the house to be pinched?"

He glanced up at Aphrodite, who sat astride the banisters lighting a
cigarette. "Who taught you to do that?" he cried.

"I'm sixteen, now," she said coolly, "and I thought I'd try it."

Her voice was drowned in the cries and laughter; Wayne, with his hands
to his ears, stared up at the piquant figure in its pink pajamas and
sandals, then his distracted gaze swept the groups of parlor maids and
footmen around the doors: "Great guns!" he thundered, "this is the limit
and they'll pull the house! Morton!"--to a footman--"ring up 7--00--9B
Murray Hill. My compliments and congratulations to Mr. Lethbridge and to
Mr. Harrow, and say that we usually dine at eight! Philodice! stop that
howling! Oh, just you wait until Iole has a talk with you all for
running about the house half-dressed----"

"I _won't_ wear straight fronts indoors, and my garters hurt!" cried
Aphrodite defiantly, preparing to slide down the banisters.

"Help!" said Wayne faintly, looking from Dione to Chlorippe, from
Chlorippe to Philodice, from Philodice to Aphrodite. "I won't have my
house turned into a confounded Art Nouveau music hall. I tell you----"

"Let _me_ tell them," said Iole, laughing and kissing her hand to the
poet as she descended the stairs in her pretty bride's traveling gown.

She checked Aphrodite, looked wisely around at her lovely sisters, then
turned to remount the stairs, summoning them with a gay little
confidential gesture.

And when the breathless crew had trooped after her, and the pad of
little, eager, sandaled feet had died away on the thick rugs of the
landing above, the poet, clasping his fat whit