"Ah, Whity, my boy!" says he, extendin' the cordial paw. "Charming of you to look me up once more, perfectly charming!"
"Rot!" growls Whity. "You know I was sent up here to do this blooming spread of yours. What sort of fake is it, anyway?"
"Ha, ha! Same old Whity!" says Virgil, poundin' him hearty on the shoulder. "But you're always welcome, my boy. As for the tea—well, one of my little affairs, you know,—just a few friends dropping in—feast of reason, flow of wit, all that sort of thing. You know how to put it. Don't forget my costume—picked it up at a Trappist monastery in the Pyrenees. I must give you some photos I've had taken in it. Ah, another knight of the pencil?" and he glances inquirin' at me.
"City Press," says Whity.
"Fine!" says Virgie, beamin'. "Well, you boys make yourselves quite at home. I'll send Marie over with cigars and cigarettes. She'll help you to describe any of the ladies' costumes you may care to mention. Here's a list of the invited guests too. Now I must be stirring about. Au revoir."
"Ass!" snarls Whity under his breath. "If I don't give him a roast, though,—one of the veiled sarcastic kind that will get past! And we must find some way of queering him with that rich widow."
"Goin' to be some contract, Whity, believe me!" says I. "Look how she's taggin' him around!"
And, say, Cousin Inez sure had the scoopnet out for him! Every move he makes she's right on his heels, gigglin' and simperin' at all his sappy speeches and hangin' onto his arm part of the time. Folks was nudgin' each other and pointin' her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up the sort of reports that had set Old Hickory's teeth on edge.
T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin' the time of his life. He exhibits some clay models, either dancin' girls or a squad of mounted cops, I couldn't make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded to read two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic. Cousin Inez leads the applause. Then, strikin' a pose, he claps his hands, the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chef luggin' a tray with a whackin' big casserole on it.
"Voilà!" sings out Virgie. "The bouillabaisse!"