me semblance of
attention to the general preparations, assemble their foot-gear,
head-gear, stars, orders, sashes, swords, and try them on for Duane
Mallett--to that young man's unconcealed dissatisfaction.

"You certainly resemble a scratch opera chorus," he observed after
passing in review the sheepish line-up in his room. "Delancy, you're the
limit as a Black Mousquetier--and, by the way, there weren't any in the
reign of Louis XVI, so perhaps that evens up matters. Dysart is the only
man who looks the real thing--or would if he'd remove that monocle. As
for Bunny and the Pink 'un, they ought to be in vaudeville singing
la-la-la."

"That's really a compliment to our legs," observed Reggie Wye to Bunbury
Gray, flourishing his property sword and gracefully performing a _pas
seul a la Genee_.

Dysart, who had been sullen all day, regarded them morosely.

Scott Seagrave, in his conventional abbe's costume of black and white,
excessively bored, stood by the window trying to catch a glimpse of the
lake to see whether any decent fish were breaking, while Scott walked
around him critically, not much edified by his costume or the way he
wore it.

"You're a sad and self-conscious-looking bunch," he concluded. "Scott, I
suppose you'll insist on wearing your mustache and eyeglasses."

"You bet," said Scott simply.

"All right. And kindly beat it. I want to try on my own plumage in
peace."

So the costumed ones trooped off to their own quarters with the
half-ashamed smirk usually worn by the American male who has persuaded
himself to frivolity. Delancy Grandcourt tramped away down the hall
banging his big sword, jingling his spurs, and flapping his loose boots.
The Pink 'un and Bunbury Gray slunk off into obscurity, and Scott
wandered back through the long hall until a black-and-red tiger moth
attracted his attention, and he forgot his annoying appearance in
frantic efforts to capture the brilliant moth.

Dysart, who had been left alone with Duane in the latter's room,
contemplated himself sullenly in the mirror while Duane, seated on the
window sill, waited for him to go.

"You think I ought to eliminate my eye-glass?" asked Dysart, still
inspecting himself.

"Yes, in deference to the conventional prejudice of the times. Nobody
wore 'em at that period."

"You seem to be a stickler for convention--of the Louis XVI sort more
than for the XIX century variety," remarked Dysart with a sneer.

Duane looked up from hi