by a pretty face or figure, he was under no illusions concerning
it or the people composing it.

Returning one afternoon from a reception at Mrs. Atherstane's he replied
to Annan's disrespectful inquiries and injurious observations:

"You're on to that joint, Henry; it's a saloon, not a salon; and Art is
the petrified sandwich. Fix me a very, ve-ry high one, dearie, because
little sunshine is in love again."

"Who drew the lucky number?" asked Annan with a shrug.

"The Countess d'Enver. She's the birdie."

"Intellectually?"

"Oh, she's an intellectual four-flusher, bless her heart! But she was
the only woman there who didn't try to mentally frisk me. We lunch
together soon, Henry."

"Where's Count hubby?"

"Aloft. She's a bird," he repeated, fondly reminiscent over his
high-ball--"and I myself am the real ornithological thing--the species
that Brooklyn itself would label 'boid' ... She has such pretty,
confiding ways, Harry."

"You'd both better join the Audubon Society for Mutual Protection,"
observed Annan dryly.

"I'll stand for anything she stands for except that social Tenderloin;
I'll join anything she joins except the 'classes now forming' in that
intellectual dance hall. By the way, who do you suppose was there?"

"The police?"

"Naw--the saloon wasn't raided, though 'Professor' Carrillo's poem was
_assez raide_. Mek-mek-k-k-k! But oh, the ginky pictures! Oh, the Art
Beautiful! Aniline rainbows exploding in a physical culture school
couldn't beat that omelette!... And guess who was pouring tea in the
centre of the olio, Harry!"

"You?" inquired Annan wearily.

"Valerie West."

"What in God's name has that bunch taken her up for?"

* * * * *

For the last few weeks Valerie's telephone had rung intermittently
summoning her to conversation with Mrs. Hind-Willet.

At first the amiable interest displayed by Mrs. Hind-Willet puzzled
Valerie until one day, returning to her rooms for luncheon, she found
the Countess d'Enver's brougham standing in front of the house and that
discreetly perfumed lady about to descend.

"How do you do?" said Valerie, stopping on the sidewalk and offering her
hand with a frank smile.

"I came to call on you," said the over-dressed little countess; "may I?"

"It is very kind of you. Will you come upstairs? There is no elevator."

The pretty bejewelled countess arrived in the living room out of breath,
and seated herself, flushed, sp