A roomful of people were buzzing like a hive.  Most were in conventional evening dress.  Here and there, however, Bob caught hints of masculine long hair, of feminine psyche knots, bandeaux and other extremely artistic but unusual departures.  One man with his dinner jacket wore a soft linen shirt perforated by a Mexican drawn-work pattern beneath which glowed a bright red silk undergarment.  Women’s gowns on the flowing and Grecian order were not uncommon.  These were usually coupled with the incongruity of parted hair brought low and madonna-wise over the ears.  As the two entered, a very powerful blond man was just finishing the declamation of a French poem.  He was addressing it directly at two women seated on a sofa.

“Un r-r-reve d’amour!”

He concluded with much passion and clasped hands.

In the rustle ensuing after this effort, Baker led his friend down the room to a very fat woman upholstered in pink satin, to whom he introduced Bob.  Mrs. Annis, for such proved to be her name, welcomed him effusively.

“I’ve heard so much about you!” she cried vivaciously, to Bob’s vast astonishment.  She tapped him on the arm with her fan.  “I’m going to make a confession to you; I know it may be foolish, but I do like music so much better than I do pictures.”

Bob, his brain whirling, muttered something.

“But I’m going to confess to you again, I like artists so much better than I do musicians.”

A light dawned on Bob.  “But I’m not an artist nor a musician,” he blurted out.

The pink-upholstered lady, starting back with an agility remarkable in one of her size, clasped her hands.

“Don’t tell me you write!” she cried dramatically.

“All right, I won’t,” protested poor Bob, “for I don’t.”

A slow expression of bewilderment overspread Mrs. Annis’s face, and she glanced toward Baker with an arched brow of interrogation.

“I merely wanted Mr. Orde to meet you, Mrs. Annis,” he said impressively, “and to feel that another time, when he is less exhausted by the strain of a long day, he may have the privilege of explaining to you the details of the great Psychic Movement he is inaugurating.”

Mrs. Annis smiled on him graciously.  “I am home every Sunday to my intimes,” she murmured.  “I should be so pleased.”

Bob bowed mechanically.

“You infernal idiot!” he ground out savagely to Baker, as they moved away.  “What do you mean?  I’ll punch your fool head when I get you out of here!”

But the plump young man merely smiled.

Halfway down the room a group of attractive-looking young men hailed them.

“Join in, Baker,” said they.  “Bring your friend along.  We’re just going to raid the commissary.”

But Baker shook his head.

“I’m showing him life,” he replied.  “None but Fuzzies in his to-night!”

He grasped Bob firmly by the arm and led him away.