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My dear Geraldine," protested Anthony, frowning humorously, "do have another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the room sniffing. He's a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I probably wouldn't be telling you this if I hadn't had a few drinks, but I don't suppose it matters." Geraldine was persistently interested. She held her glass, untasted, between finger and thumb and regarded him with eyes in which there was a touch of awe. "How do you mean a hypocrite?" "Well," said Anthony impatiently, "maybe he's not. But he doesn't like the things that I like, and so, as far as I'm concerned, he's uninteresting." "Hm." Her curiosity seemed, at length, satisfied. She sank back into the sofa and sipped her cocktail. "You're a funny one," she commented thoughtfully. "Does everybody want to marry you because your grandfather is rich?" "They don't--but I shouldn't blame them if they did. Still, you see, I never intend to marry." She scorned this. "You'll fall in love someday. Oh, you will--I know." She nodded wisely. "It'd be idiotic to be overconfident. That's what ruined the Chevalier O'Keefe." "Who was he?" "A creature of my splendid mind. He's my one creation, the Chevalier." "Cra-a-azy!" she murmured pleasantly, using the clumsy rope ladder with which she bridged all gaps and climbed after her mental superiors. Subconsciously she felt that it eliminated distances and brought the person whose imagination had eluded her back within range. "Oh, no!" objected Anthony, "oh, no, Geraldine. You mustn't play the alienist upon the Chevalier. If you feel yourself unable to understand him I won't bring him in. Besides, I should feel a certain uneasiness because of his regrettable reputation." "I guess I can understand anything that's got any sense to it," answered Geraldine a bit testily. "In that case there are various episodes in the life of the Chevalier which might prove diverting." "Well?" "It was his untimely end that caused me to think of him and made him apropos in the conversation. I hate to introduce him end foremost, but it seems inevitable that the Chevalier must back into your life." "Well, what about him? Did he die?" "He did! In this manner. He was an Irishman, Geraldine, a semi-fictional Irishman--the wild sort with a genteel brogue and 'reddish hair.' He was exiled from Erin in the late days of chivalry and, of course, crossed over to France. Now the Chevalier O'Keefe, Geraldine, had, like me, one weakness. He was enormously susceptible to all sorts and conditions of women. Besides being a sentimentalist he was a romantic, a vain fellow, a man of wild passions, a little blind in one eye and almost stone-blind in the other. Now a male roaming the world in this condition is as helpless as a lion without teeth, and in consequence the Chevalier was made utterly miserable for twenty years by a series of women who hated him, used him, bored him, aggravated him, sickened him, spent his money, made a fool of him--in brief, as the world has it, loved him. "This was bad, Geraldine, and as the Chevalier, save for this one weakness, this exceeding susceptibility, was a man of penetration, he decided that he would rescue himself once and for all from these drains upon him. With this purpose he went to a very famous monastery in Champagne called--well, anachronistically known as St. Voltaire's. It was the rule at St. Voltaire's that no monk could descend to the ground story of the monastery so long as he lived, but should exist engaged in prayer and contemplation in one of the four towers, which were called after the four commandments of the monastery rule: Poverty, Chastity, Obedience, and Silence. "When the day came that was to witness the Chevalier's farewell to the world he was utterly happy. He gave all his Greek books to his landlady, and his sword he sent in a golden sheath to the King of France, and all his mementos of Ireland he gave to the young Huguenot who sold fish in the street where he lived.

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the moment had passed. Mrs. Gilbert having climbed the hill of exposition was about to glide swiftly down the ski-jump of collapse. Her eyes were like a blue sky seen through two round, red window-casements. The flesh about her mouth was trembling. And at the moment the door opened, admitting into the room Gloria and the two young ladies lately mentioned. TWO YOUNG WOMEN "Well!" "How do you do, Mrs. Gilbert!" Miss Kane and Miss Jerryl are presented to Mr. Richard Caramel. "This is Dick" (laughter). "I've heard so much about you," says Miss Kane between a giggle and a shout. "How do you do," says Miss Jerryl shyly. Richard Caramel tries to move about as if his figure were better. He is torn between his innate cordiality and the fact that he considers these girls rather common--not at all the Farmover type. Gloria has disappeared into the bedroom. "Do sit down," beams Mrs. Gilbert, who is by now quite herself. "Take off your things." Dick is afraid she will make some remark about the age of his soul, but he forgets his qualms in completing a conscientious, novelist's examination of the two young women. Muriel Kane had originated in a rising family of East Orange. She was short rather than small, and hovered audaciously between plumpness and width. Her hair was black and elaborately arranged. This, in conjunction with her handsome, rather bovine eyes, and her over-red lips, combined to make her resemble Theda Bara, the prominent motion picture actress. People told her constantly that she was a "vampire," and she believed them. She suspected hopefully that they were afraid of her, and she did her utmost under all circumstances to give the impression of danger. An imaginative man could see the red flag that she constantly carried, waving it wildly, beseechingly--and, alas, to little spectacular avail. She was also tremendously timely: she knew the latest songs, all the latest songs--when one of them was played on the phonograph she would rise to her feet and rock her shoulders back and forth and snap her fingers, and if there was no music she would accompany herself by humming. Her conversation was also timely: "I don't care," she would say, "I should worry and lose my figure"--and again: "I can't make my feet behave when I hear that tune. Oh, baby!" Her finger-nails were too long and ornate, polished to a pink and unnatural fever. Her clothes were too tight, too stylish, too vivid, her eyes too roguish, her smile too coy. She was almost pitifully overemphasized from head to foot. The other girl was obviously a more subtle personality. She was an exquisitely dressed Jewess with dark hair and a lovely milky pallor. She seemed shy and vague, and these two qualities accentuated a rather delicate charm that floated about her. Her family were "Episcopalians," owned three smart women's shops along Fifth Avenue, and lived in a magnificent apartment on Riverside Drive. It seemed to Dick, after a few moments, that she was attempting to imitate Gloria--he wondered that people invariably chose inimitable people to imitate. "We had the most _hectic_ time!" Muriel was exclaiming enthusiastically. "There was a crazy woman behind us on the bus. She was absitively, posolutely _nutty_! She kept talking to herself about something she'd like to do to somebody or something. I was _pet_rified, but Gloria simply _wouldn't_ get off." Mrs. Gilbert opened her mouth, properly awed. "Really?" "Oh, she was crazy. But we should worry, she didn't hurt us. Ugly! Gracious! The man across from us said her face ought to be on a night-nurse in a home for the blind, and we all _howled_, naturally, so the man tried to pick us up." Presently Gloria emerged from her bedroom and in unison every eye turned on her. The two girls receded into a shadowy background, unperceived, unmissed. "We've been talking about you," said Dick quickly, "--your mother and I." "Well," said Gloria. A pause--Muriel turned to Dick. "You're a great writer, aren't you?" "I'm a writer," he confessed sheepishly. "I always say," said Muriel earnestly, "that if I ever had time to write down all my experiences it'd make a wonderful book." Rachael giggled sympathetically; Richard Caramel's bow was almost stately. Muriel continued: "But I don't see how you can sit down and do it. And poetry! Lordy, I can't make two lines rhyme. Well, I should worry!" Richard Caramel with difficulty restrained a shout of laughter. Gloria was chewing an amazing gum-drop and staring moodily out the window. Mrs. Gilbert cleared her throat and beamed. "But you see," she said in a sort of universal exposition, "you're not an ancient soul--like Richard." The Ancient Soul breathed a gasp of relief--it was out at last. Then as if she had been considering it for five minutes, Gloria made a sudden announcement: "I'm going to give a party." "Oh, can I come?" cried Muriel with facetious daring. "A dinner. Seven people: Muriel and Rachael and I, and you, Dick, and Anthony, and that man named Noble--I liked him--and Bloeckman." Muriel and Rachael went into soft and purring ecstasies of enthusiasm. Mrs. Gilbert blinked and beamed. With an air of casualness Dick broke in with a question: "Who is this fellow Bloeckman, Gloria?" Scenting a faint hostility, Gloria turned to him. "Joseph Bloeckman? He's the moving picture man. Vice-president of 'Films Par Excellence.' He and father do a lot of business." "Oh!" "Well, will you all come?" They would all come. A date was arranged within the week. Dick rose, adjusted hat, coat, and muffler, and gave out a general smile. "By-by," said Muriel, waving her hand gaily, "call me up some time." Richard Caramel blushed for her. DEPLORABLE END OF THE CHEVALIER O'KEEFE It was Monday and Anthony took Geraldine Burke to luncheon at the Beaux Arts--afterward they went up to his apartment and he wheeled out the little rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting vermouth, gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant. Geraldine Burke, usher at Keith's, had been an amusement of several months. She demanded so little that he liked her, for since a lamentable affair with a débutante the preceding summer, when he had discovered that after half a dozen kisses a proposal was expected, he had been wary of girls of his own class. It was only too easy to turn a critical eye on their imperfections: some physical harshness or a general lack of personal delicacy--but a girl who was usher at Keith's was approached with a different attitude. One could tolerate qualities in an intimate valet that would be unforgivable in a mere acquaintance on one's social level. Geraldine, curled up at the foot of the lounge, considered him with narrow slanting eyes.