be after that. She only shrugged her shoulders. So I gave her up. The
others did too. And she went back to Richmond, it seems, and married a
sainted geologist; while I--well, I never did get over it, quite. Silly,
of course; but when I met other girls later I--I remembered, that's
all."

"Which accounts for you bein' a bach so long, does it?" says I. "Well,
it's never too late. Here's your chance once more. At the Maison Maxixe
you can pull any kind of romance, stale or recent, and nobody'll care a
hoot. I'll duck the dinner, and you can----"

"No, no!" protests J. Bayard. "I--er--I wouldn't take her to dinner
alone for worlds. Really!" he waves his hands almost tragic.

"Why not?" says I. "Thought you hadn't got over it."

"Oh, but I have," insists Steele, "thoroughly."

"Must have been lately then," says I.

"To-day--just now," says he. "I never dreamed she would develop
into--er--a woman like that,--the way she looks at you, you know."

"You don't need to describe it," says I. "That wa'n't a marker to the
way she looked at Swifty and me. But wait! We'll hand her a jolt
Saturday night."

Steele groans. "I wish I could---- By George!" he explodes. "I'd
forgotten Major Ben Cutter."

"What about him?" says I.

"An old friend," says J. Bayard. "He's landing Saturday, from Santa
Marta. I haven't seen him for years,--been down there running a banana
plantation, you know. He cabled up, and I'd promised to take him around
that evening, dinner at the club, and----"

"Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" says I. "No old-friend alibi goes in this case."

"But, Shorty," he protests, "how can I----"

"You can lug him along, can't you?" says I. "Make it a four-cornered
affair. The more the merrier."

"He's such a diffident, shy chap, though," goes on Steele, "and after
five years in the bush----"

"Oh, a dose of Mrs. Hollister will do him good," says I. "She won't
mind. She'll be bein' bored. Just 'phone her and explain. And remind her
when she's gettin' her costume that this ain't any church sociable we're
attendin'."

Honest, I was more leery on that point than about anything else; for you
know how giddy they doll up at them joints, and while her taste in
stained glass windows might be strictly up to date, when it comes to
flossin' up for the Maison Maxixe--well, no gray-and-white, back-number
regalia would do there. If we wa'n't shut out, we'd be guyed to death.

So about seven-thirty Saturday night I was some chilly in t