Even the queen deigned to inquire of me whether there was, in the house, material with which to construct a pair of ruffled panties for her husband.
Only the Bolsheviki remained aloof, chattering and mouthing together and waving their soiled fingers at each other and, presumably, at the bourgeois world in general.
Later, Smith came into my room whither I had retired to resume my series of poems to Thusis,—a rather melancholy occupation yet oddly comforting, too.
"Why the devil," said I, "did you suggest such a party?"
"I don't know. It occurred to me. I'm rather tired of their wrangling."
"But a baby-party!"
He laughed: "You see how they take to the idea. Anything to dissipate this sullen, ugly atmosphere. It gets on my nerves."
"Are you going?"
"Certainly."
"In costume?"