"Only one girl so far," Culling interposed. "D'you and Phil dance together? And who has the beads? Some one's got to wear a bead necklace, you aren't admitted without it even in Russia. University dancing costume, I believe it's called."
"Silly ass!" Robin murmured without heat, but Culling was already depicting two nude gladiators struggling in front of the Town Hall for the possession of an exiguous necklace. The Vice-Chancellor and Hebdomadal Council hurried in horror-stricken file down St. Aldates from Carfax.
"You, Gladys, and Phil," continued Robin dispassionately. "Sylvia...."
"Oh, am I coming?" asked Sylvia who had just entered the room, and was unpinning a motor-veil.
"Oh, yes, darling Sylvia!" Robin—I know—was both fond and proud of his sister, but the tone of ad hoc blandishment suggested that experience had taught him to persuade rather than coerce. "You'll come, if you love me, and bring Mavis," he added with eyes bashfully averted. "Now another man, and a girl for Mr. Merivale."
"Is mother included?" asked Sylvia.
"Not if Mr. Merivale comes," Robin answered in modest triumph. "Who'd you like?" he asked me.
"Keep a spare ticket up your sleeve," I counselled. "Don't lay on any one specially for me, I've seen my best dancing days. In any case I shouldn't last the course three nights running. You'll find me drifting away for a little bridge if I see you're not getting up to mischief."
Robin sucked his pencil meditatively, waved to the Seraph who had just entered the room, and turned to his sister.