ing illegal has been poured. Jeff is calling Vernabelle little
woman and telling her if worse comes to worst they might try being
Bohemians on a mixture his men up on the ranch thought of for a New
Year's celebration. He says they took a whole case of vanilla extract
and mixed it with one dozen cans of condensed milk, the vanilla having
a surprising kick in it and making 'em all feel like the good old days
next morning.

Vernabelle says he reminds her of some untamed creature of the open,
some woodsy monster of the dells, and Jeff says that's just what he feels
like. He's going on to tell her some more about what he feels like, but
Vernabelle is now greeting Oswald Cummings, the pagan of splendid sins,
from the Elite Bootery. She tells Oswald there is a cold cruelty in the
lines of his face that reminds her of the emperor Nero.

Finally about twenty choice spirits who did things was gathered for this
half-lighted hour, so everybody set down on chairs and the couch and the
floor, leaving a clear space for Vernabelle; and Professor Gluckstein,
our music teacher, puts down his meerschaum pipe and goes to the piano
and plays a soft piece. The prof is a German, but not a pro-German, and
plays first rate in the old-fashioned way, with his hands. Then, when
all the comrades get settled and their cigarettes lighted, the prof
drifted into something quite mournful and Vernabelle appeared from
behind a screen without her kimono.

The early Greeks must of been strong on art jewellery. Vernabelle clanked
at every step with bracelets and anklets and necklaces. She had a
priceless ruby weighing half a pound fastened to the middle of her
bony forehead. Her costume was spangled, but not many spangles had been
needed. The early Greeks couldn't of been a dressy lot. If Vernabelle had
been my daughter I could of give her what she deserved with almost no
trouble. The costume, as Metta had said, not only followed the lines
of the figure, so far as it went anywhere at all, but it suggested and
almost revealed that Vernabelle had been badly assembled. The Bohemians
kind of gasped and shivered, all except Jeff Tuttle, who applauded
loudly. They seemed to feel that Vernabelle was indeed getting away
from it all.

Then came this here cycle-of-dance portrayals. The first one wasn't much
dance; it was mostly slow, snaky motions with the arms and other things,
and it was to portray a mother cobra mourning her first-born. At least
that's the way