At last he commissioned her to poach the eggs.
Larry Kane, a club member, as the Infant Bacchus, in fleshlings and cheesecloth with a garland of grape-leaves on his head, had already begun the concoction known as the “Pot and Kettle punch,” an amber-colored fluid with a fragrant odor of spices, and a taste that was mildness itself, but in which there lurked the potent spell of the wassail of many lands. It was against this punch that Nellie Pennington had taken pains on the way out in the machine, to warn her small brood; and some of those young ladies who had already retired from the fire, stood beside the mixer of ingredients, sniffing at the uncorked bottles, making pretty faces and lisping in childish disapproval.
Coleman Van Duyn, as Little Jack Horner, his scarlet face rising like a winter sunset from his white apron, was superintending the broiling of the lobsters; Dirwell De Lancey, who proclaimed himself Simple Simon, was carving cold turkey, Freddy Sackett was making the salad-dressing; while Betty Tremaine, a very comely Bo-Peep, was drying the lettuce leaves and crushing them to the proper consistency between her slender pink fingers; Yates Rowland stewed the terrapin; Percy Endicott made the coffee; and Sam Purviance, with Nina Jaffray’s help, made the cocktails.
The festivities of supper were well under way before Phil Gallatin arrived. It had been late before he could leave the office, and so he had been obliged to come out by train. After getting into costume he sought the room eagerly for Jane and their eyes met in wireless telegraphy across the table. The chairs beside her were occupied by Worthington and Van Duyn, so he dropped into a chair Savage offered him between Mrs. Pennington and Miss Tremaine. His host thrust a cocktail in front of him on the table, and Phil thanked him over his shoulder, but when Savage had gone, he pushed it away. Nellie Pennington realized that he looked a little tired and serious, but made no comment. Gallatin had been working hard all day and until the present moment had forgotten that he had had no lunch. Food revived him and it was not long before he could enter into the gay spirit of the company. They were children, indeed. The cooking finished, their white aprons had been discarded and loud was the joy at the appearance of the men and eager the compliments for the ladies. The babel of baby rattles and tin whistles, discontinued for a time, arose again and [the table rang from end to end with joke and laughter]. Bibby Worthington’s wig of Bobby Shafto got askew and at an unfortunate moment was jostled off into the salad-bowl, upon which his bald head received baptism in fizz at the hands of the Infant Bacchus. Freddy Perrine, who had had more than his share of punch, was shooting butter-balls from the prongs of a fork at Kent Beylard’s white shirt-front, for Beylard hadn’t had time to go to the costumer. Dirwell De Lancey insisted upon singing “The Low-Backed Car,” but was prevented from doing so by the vehemence of his chorus which advised him to get a limousine. Sam Purviance began telling a story which seemed to be leading toward Montmartre when Nellie Pennington rose from the table, and followed by her buds, adjourned to another room. Here the sound of a piano was immediately heard and the tireless feet of the younger set took up the Turkey Trot where they had left off at three o’clock the night before.
No word had passed between Phil Gallatin and Jane, and he had just gotten to his feet in pursuit of her when Nina Jaffray stood in his way.
“Hello, Phil,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to see you.”
“Me? I’m glad of that, Nina. You’re certainly a corker in that get-up. What are you?”
“I’m Jill. Won’t you help me fetch a pail of water?”
“And have my crown broken? No, thanks. Besides I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be in the part. You see I’m——
“‘Tommy Trot, the man of law,
Who sold his bed to lay on straw.’”