“Pups!” sniveled the poet—“penniless, wastrel pups!”
“Their names,” said Aphrodite coolly, from the top of the staircase, “are James Harrow and Henry Lethbridge. I wish there had been three——”
“Harrow! Lethbridge!” gasped Wayne. “When”—he turned helplessly to the poet—“when did they do this?”
Through the gay babble of voices and amid cries and interruptions, Wayne managed to comprehend the story. He tried to speak, but everybody except the poet laughed and chatted, and the poet, suffused now with a sort of sad sweetness, waved his hand in slow
unctuous waves until even the footmen’s eyes protruded.
“It’s all right,” said Wayne, raising his voice; “it’s topsyturvy and irregular, but it’s all right. I’ve known Harrow and Leth—For Heaven’s sake, Dione, don’t kiss me like that; I want to talk!—You’re hugging me too hard, Philodice. Oh, Lord! will you stop chattering all together! I—I—Do you want the house to be pinched?”
He glanced up at Aphrodite, who sat astride the banisters lighting a cigarette. “Who taught you to do that?” he cried.
“I’m sixteen, now,” she said coolly, “and I thought I’d try it.”
Her voice was drowned in the cries and laughter; Wayne, with his hands to his ears, stared up at the piquant figure in its pink pajamas and sandals, then his distracted gaze swept the groups of parlor maids and footmen around the doors: “Great guns!” he thundered, “this is the limit and they’ll pull the house! Morton!”—to a footman—“ring up 7—00—9B Murray Hill. My compliments and congratulations to Mr. Lethbridge and to Mr. Harrow, and say that we usually dine at eight! Philodice! stop that howling! Oh,
just you wait until Iole has a talk with you all for running about the house half-dressed——”