is time Haswell did not vouchsafe even a monosyllable in reply, and
the tactless Kirk assumed the double burden of the conversation.

"I call it rough treatment when the two truly beautiful women in society
come to a dance and proceed, to all intents and purposes, to evaporate.
Miss Burton, too, seems to have been converted into thin air. What's the
use of struggling to keep up with new steps?"

Len Haswell rose stiffly from his chair, and, tossing his cigar through
the open window, stalked silently from the room.

The blond young man glanced uncomprehendingly after him, and Thayre's
laugh broke in a booming peal.

"Rather gratuitous, son, wasn't it?" he suggested.

"What do you mean?" Larry Kirk put his question blankly.

"Nothing, except that you know Len or ought to. He's the present-day
Othello, sulking because he can't get a dance with his wife. It's barely
conceivable that he's not aching to have it rubbed in."

"Can't get a dance?" repeated the empty-eyed youth perplexedly. "Why?"

Thayre snorted. "What chance has he--or any one else when Ham Burton's
gifted pomeranian sequesters her in some shaded nook and whispers
musical nonsense into her coral ear?"

"You mean Paul Burton? Gifted pomeranian fits him nicely ... but why
should any man be jealous of--him?"

"A man may be jealous of any creature that all women pet. Paul Burton
can play to them until their golden souls come soaring out to be
playmates with his golden soul. You and I, having no wives, may be able
to laugh at such things--but Len Haswell has a devilish pretty one--and
a devilish foolish one."

To young Mr. Kirk the situation seemed simple.

"Why doesn't Len just take this pleasing minstrel by the scruff of his
neck and say to him, 'Nice little doggy, run away'?"

"For two reasons. First, behind the pleasing minstrel stands the
Emperor--damn his magnificently audacious soul! Secondly, when you chase
a man who has access to the treasure of the Incas ... you take a fairish
chance of chasing the lady along with him."

"I'm sorry I made Len sore." The blond man spoke contritely. Then his
voice snapped into animosity. "He's worth a dozen Paul Burtons, the
vapid little piano-player."

"Right-o!" Thayre stood with his feet well apart and his baldish head
thrown back. "Even that profound gift for reading human nature, which it
pleased a Divine Providence to bestow upon me, could hardly have hit
more jolly well on the peg." He paused, then ad