At that she laughed.
"Josephine desires to know what time the party is to begin," she said.
"It begins with dinner, Clelia. They all come in costume. After dinner they play games. Supper at midnight. Then they dance—God help them."
"The Bolsheviki, too?"
"That's another breed of cat," said I. "I haven't the faintest idea what they intend to do. All I know is that they're not coming to the party. So give them a table by themselves in their rooms half an hour before we dine. Otherwise those chattering apes are likely to spoil the party."
She agreed with me.
After she had departed I began again on my poem called "Nobody Home":
"She who, risen from the sea,—
Body fashioned from its foam,—
Once appeared to favor me,
Now has left me all alone:—
When I call she's not at home;
Silent are the Temple closes
Where her priestess used to roam
Smiling at me, crowned with roses
Underneath the Temple's dome;
So I stand outside alone.
From the dead fire on her altar
Now I turn away and falter:
Aphrodite's not at home.
Goddess born of sun and sea,
Goddess born of sea and sun,
Blue-eyed Venus pity me,
I would wed my Dearest One:—
She denies; and I'm undone!"—
Just here I found myself in difficulties: the verse called for two more words to rhyme with "sun," and the available ones already unused included such words as bun, dun, fun, gun, hun, nun, pun, run, shun, ton, and won—at least these were all I could think of—none among them available for classical purposes.
Much disturbed I sat consulting my Rhyming Dictionary and smoking a cigarette without relish, when a terrific screaming from the Princess Pudelstoff's apartment brought me to my feet and out into the corridor.