“Sainted Billikens, what a make-up!” says Whity.

And, believe me, Cousin Inez was dolled for fair.  She’d peeled for the fray, as you might say.  And if the dinky shoulder straps held it was all right; but if one of ’em broke there’d sure be some hurry call for four yards of burlap to do her up in.  She seems smilin’ and happy, though, and keeps glancin’ expectant at the red velvet draperies in the back of the room.

Sure enough, exactly on the tick of nine, the curtains part, and in steps the hero of the evenin’.  Dress suit?  Say, you don’t know Virgie.  He’s wearin’ a reg’lar monk’s outfit, of some coarse brown stuff belted in with a thick rope and open wide at the neck.

“For the love of beans, look at his feet!” I whispers.

“Sandals,” says Whity, “and no socks!  Blessed if Virgie isn’t going the limit!”

There’s a chorus of “Ah-h-h-h’s!” as he steps out, and then comes a buzz of whispers which might have been compliments, and might not.  But it don’t faze Virgie.  He goes bowin’ and handshakin’ through the mob, smilin’ mushy on all and several, and actin’ as pleased with himself as if he’d taken the prize at a fancy dress ball.  You should have seen Cousin Inez when he gets to her!

“Oh, you utterly clever man!” she gushes.  “What a genuine genius you are!”

“Dear, sweet lady!” says he.  “It is indeed gracious of you to say so.”

“Help!” groans Whity, like he had a pain.

“Ah, buck up!” says I.  “It’ll be your turn soon.”

I was wonderin’ how Virgie was goin’ to simmer down enough to pass Whity the chilly greetin’; for he’s just bubblin’ over with kind words and comic little quips.  But, say, he don’t even try to shade it.

“Ah, Whity, my boy!” says he, extendin’ the cordial paw.  “Charming of you to look me up once more, perfectly charming!”

“Rot!” growls Whity.  “You know I was sent up here to do this blooming spread of yours.  What sort of fake is it, anyway?”

“Ha, ha!  Same old Whity!” says Virgil, poundin’ him hearty on the shoulder.  “But you’re always welcome, my boy.  As for the tea—­well, one of my little affairs, you know,—­just a few friends dropping in—­feast of reason, flow of wit, all that sort of thing.  You know how to put it.  Don’t forget my costume—­picked it up at a Trappist monastery in the Pyrenees.  I must give you some photos I’ve had taken in it.  Ah, another knight of the pencil?” and he glances inquirin’ at me.

“City Press,” says Whity.

“Fine!” says Virgie, beamin’.  “Well, you boys make yourselves quite at home.  I’ll send Marie over with cigars and cigarettes.  She’ll help you to describe any of the ladies’ costumes you may care to mention.  Here’s a list of the invited guests too.  Now I must be stirring about. Au revoir.”

“Ass!” snarls Whity under his breath.  “If I don’t give him a roast, though,—­one of the veiled sarcastic kind that will get past!  And we must find some way of queering him with that rich widow.”