"Peter hasn't," the little man lied cheerfully; "Peter went home to sulk like the unwhipped cub he is; and sulking, was yet decent enough to lend me these rags."
"You—you're not Peter Kenny?"
"No more than you are Molly Lessing."
"Molly Lessing! What do you know—? Who can you be? Why are you masked?"
"Simply," he explained pleasantly, "that my incognito may remain such to all save you."
"But—but who are you?"
"It is permitted?" he asked, with a gesture offering to take the tiny printed card of dance engagements that dangled from her fingers by its silken thong.
In dumb mystification the girl surrendered it.
Seating himself beside her, P. Sybarite ran his eye down the list.
"The last was number—which?" he enquired with unruffled impudence.