The fourth man was Philip Starr, a poet not long for San Francisco, seeing that the Athanæum had already placed the laurels upon his brow—he was as far from the conventional type of poet as is possible. He had a lean, eager, sharply cut face, shrewd, quick eye and sinewy, long fingers. His hair was close cropped, his mouth was tight and narrow. Electricity seemed to dart from him as from a dynamo. Just now he was teaching the company a new song—an old one, rather, for it was an ancient Anglo-Saxon drinking-song, whose uproarious refrain was well fitted to the temper of the assembly.
At one end of the table sat a young woman, petite, elf-like as a little girl, a brown, cunning, soft-haired creature, smiling, smiling, smiling, with eyes half closed, wrinkled in quiet mirth. This was Elsie Dougal.
Opposite her was a girl of twenty-seven, with a handsome, clear-cut, classic face, lighted with gray eyes, limpid and straightforward, making her seem the most ingenuous of all. Mabel's hair curled unmanageably, springy and dark. Her face was serious and intent till her smile broke and a little self-conscious laugh escaped.
Starr pounded with one fist upon the table, his thumb held stiffly upright:
"Dance, Thumbakin, dance!"
he sang, and the chorus was repeated. Then with the heel of his palm and his fingers outstretched, pounding merrily in time:
"Oh, dance ye merrymen, every one,"
then with his fist as before:
"For Thumbakin, he can dance alone!"
and, raising his fists high over his head, coming down with a bang: