“The wine and my smoking have made me drowsy,” he told her, with no effort at concealment.  “We must get home or I’ll fall asleep myself.”

A covert smile flitted across Warren’s pale face, as Shirley unconventionally indulged in several semi-polite yawns, nodding a bit, as well.  Helene accepted glass after glass of wine, thoughtfully poured out by her host.  And as thoughtfully, did she pour it into the flower vases when his back was turned:  she matched the other girls’ acute transports of vinous joy without an error.  Shirley walked to the window, asking if he might open it for a little fresh air.  Warren nodded smiling.

“You are well on the way to heaven in this altitude of eight stories,” volunteered Shirley, with a sleepy laugh.

“Yes.  The eighth and top floor.  A burglar could make a good haul of my collection, except that I have the window to the fire escape barred from the inside, around the corner facing to the north.  Here, I am safe from molestation.”

“A great view of the Park—­what a fine library for real reading; and I see you have a typewriter—­the same make I used to thump, when I did newspaper work—­a Remwood.  Let me see some of your literary work, sometime—­”

Warren waved a deprecating hand.  “Very little—­editors do not like it.  I do better with an adding machine down on Wall Street than a typewriter.  But let us join the others.”  There was a noticeable reluctance about dwelling upon the typewriter subject.  Warren hurried into the drawing-room, as Shirley followed with a perceptible stagger.

Shine Taylor scrutinized his condition, as he asked for another cigarette.  As he yielded to an apparent craving for sleep, the others danced and chatted, while Taylor disappeared through the hall door.  After a few minutes he returned to grimace slightly at Warren.  Shirley roused himself from his stupor.

“Bonbon, let us be going.  Good-night, everybody.”

He walked unsteadily to the door, amid a chorus of noisy farewells, with Helene unsteady and hilarious behind him.  Warren and Shine seemed satisfied with their hospitable endeavors, as they bade good-night.  The elevator brought up two belated guests, the roseate Pinkie and a colorless youth.

“Oh, are you going, Mr. Shirley?  What a blooming shame.  I just left the most wonderful supper-party at the Claridge to see you.”

“Too bad:  I hope for better luck next time.”

“The elevator is waiting,” and Helene’s gaze was scornful.  Shirley restrained his smile at the girl’s covert hatred of the redhaired charmer.  Then he asked maliciously:  “Isn’t she interesting?  Too bad she associates with her inferiors.”

“You put it mildly.”

“Here, boy, call a taxicab,” he ordered the attendant, as they reached the lower level.

“Sorry, boss, but I dassent leave the elevator at this time of night.  I’m the only one in the place jest now.”