Wayne looked around, paid the hansom-driver, and, advancing slowly, offered his hand as the poet descended to the sidewalk. “How are you?” he inquired without enthusiasm as the poet evinced a desire to paw him. “All is well here, I hope.”
“George! Son!” The poet gulped till his dewlap contracted. He laid a large plump hand on Wayne’s shoulders. “Where are my lambs?” he quavered; “where are they?”
“Which lambs?” inquired the young man uneasily. “If you mean Iole and Vanessa——”
“No! My ravished lambs! Give me my stolen lambs. Trifle no longer with a father’s affections! Lissa!—Cybele! Great Heavens! Where are they?” he sobbed hoarsely.
“Well, where are they?” retorted his son-in-law, horrified. “Come into the house; people in the street are looking.”
In the broad hall the poet paused, staggered, strove to paw Wayne, then attempted to fold his arms in an attitude of bitter scorn.
“Two penniless wastrels,” he muttered, “are wedded to my lambs. But there are laws to invoke——”
An avalanche of pretty girls in pink pajamas
came tumbling down the bronze and marble staircase, smothering poet and son-in-law in happy embraces; and “Oh, George!” they cried, “how sunburned you are! So is Iole, but she is too sweet! Did you have a perfectly lovely honeymoon? When is Vanessa coming? And how is Mr. Briggs? And—oh, do you know the news? Cybele and Lissa married two such extremely attractive young men this afternoon——”
“Married!” cried Wayne, releasing Dione’s arms from his neck. “Whom did they marry?”