“Beginning on me already, sweet Grief—and with the old baby-eyed confidence game? Even so, you are different from the rest of the damned Delilahs.”
Unexpectedly he clapped his hands. Invective, sarcasm and abuse greeted the courtiers and pages who sprang to receive and execute his orders.
“Get the machinery of this court geared up, will you? Light the snuffed lucifers that are supposed to illuminate my life. Affairs in general are going to be run more according to the ways of Earth, or certain helliots will be put through their third and last degree before their appointed time. You, tell that new chef that I have some few untried torments for him if he does not excel his predecessors to-night. He’s to prepare a banquet that will taste as well as look. Dynobasco Sauce for my burnt-out stomach, the mead that sears to wash it down—all the trimmings. And you, tell the head landscape gardener that I want moonlight to-night—gobs of it—and a free play of juice through the Garden of Bad Luck. Have him throw the limit in effect—fountains and foliage and tropical bloom. I want the mistress of royal robes paged at once. Wonderful electrician though she is, she hasn’t had a worthwhile order since Cleopatra cast me for Anthony II. in a little domestic drama whose tragic last act rather overbalanced the light lines of the start. We shall see what her genius at fabric effects can do for this trail-worn lady. Remind her of how Shakespeare once remarked: ‘Glad rags don’t spoil the work of any tragedienne.’”
The crook of a royal finger brought Old Original to his side.
“Sin, I wish you personally to see to the selection of a suitable tear-bowl. Take care that it is polished. Our electro-silver plate tarnishes so quickly from its own heat. And make sure it doesn’t leak. My first crocodile tear must be preserved—a glittering trophy to adorn the filet of m’lady Grief. Now begone, all of you. The biggest little séance since Creation is going to commence to-night.”
Alone, to his reflection in the mirror, he telepathed:
“I know that she is different from the different effect on me. Because I don’t doubt that she’s bad, I don’t dislike her looking good. She is unique, this Dame Dolores. I may be able to use her. Should I approve her method in those troubles she caused on Earth, I just might show her some larger responsibilities.”
Through the seven courses of that most remarkable of feasts, the spirit-girl Dolores exerted herself to please their Satanic host, for sake of her babe if not herself. Splendid beyond words was his appearance, from his scintillant crown to the hem of a mantle charged to imitate iridescent metal cloth. Corporal Sam Cummings she scarcely had recognized, so changed was he by the steel-scaled costume of an old-time knight in which he came arrayed, a veritable “armour of light.”
Without vanity, she appreciated the kindly soldier-soul’s gasp at first sight of her, having herself been surprised by the achievement of the mistress of robes.