During the afternoon King O’Leary performed wonders. Healy’s, through the mediation of that friend of struggling artists, Pat (blessed be his memory along with Abou Ben Adhem and the Good Samaritan!) had agreed to hold the check and even to advance a hundred dollars cash in consideration of the magnificent order for the evening. Tootles, who was left in charge of the studio as the Committee on Decorations, beheld in successive stages of amazement the arrival of a Christmas tree, followed by two urchins staggering under wreaths with trailing red ribbons and green garlands sufficient to decorate a theater, an immense clump of mistletoe, which he immediately suspended to the snout of the Chinese dragon; and while he was yet in the throes of apprehension that King O’Leary’s thousand dollars had been dissipated, a brigade of waiters arrived, who built up, as though by magic, a table capable of seating a score. On top of this followed two florists (one evidently having proven incapable of filling King O’Leary’s desires), who further transformed the studio with potted flowers and palms and left a moist, tissue-filled box redolent with boutonniÈres.

By five o’clock acceptances had come in from every one except Drinkwater and Inga Sonderson—and also Dangerfield, who, however, had probably not yet moved in. At six, Flick and King O’Leary, returning laden with presents, stopped at the door with exclamations of wonder at the miracle they themselves had wrought. The studio had disappeared under the verdant arbor, while a wonderful spangled tree rose like a fairy dream, in one corner. In the center the snowy white spread of the table, sparkling with silver and the glass that snuggled among the green decorations, seemed prepared for a ducal banquet in some sylvan hunting-lodge.

At seven o’clock the guests arrived: Mr. and Mrs. Teagan, who had been especially and strategically invited—Mr. Teagan very dignified and stiff in dinner coat and fat black tie; Mrs. Teagan, rustling good naturedly and beaming forth from a gorgeous pink-satin ball gown with black stomacher—Millie Brewster in blue frock cut properly high and loaded with flounce on flounce of ancient lace; the baron in the evening suit which he wore to Delmonico’s, blue-velvet collar and brass-buttoned vest, with a cut of black-satin ribbon across the frilled shirt; Miss Quirley in a marvelous black-lace gown over a pink silk foundation, with dainty wristlets; Schneibel in green-velvet smoking-jacket and red tie of a totally different hue from his hair; Belle Shaler and Pansy Hartmann in evening gowns, popular editions of the latest styles, presented to them by illustrators in search of heroines of high society; while Tootles, who did the honors, moved among them like a dancing master, more English than ever in a snug dinner coat, with his chin reposing on a high white stockade. Flick had dressed for the evening by the simple expedient of adding a boutonniÈre to his faithful (the expression is his) ruddy chestnut suit, eclipsing King O’Leary, who remained the roving democrat that he was. Finally, Myrtle Popper arrived the last, on a calculated entrance, towering in mauve, loaded with brooches and sparklers and distilling perfume.

Once gathered, a certain unease unaccountably fell over the party. Mr. and Mrs. Teagan stood alone, clinging to each other, as Schneibel roamed about, admiring the back drops which he believed the work of Tootles. Miss Quirley looked so frightened when the baron tried to open a conversation, while Myrtle Popper and Millie Brewster looked each other over with such visible amazement that King O’Leary, fearing the party was going on the rocks, cried,

“Every one find his place at the table.”

A moment later each guest was gazing in wonder, first at a large portion of caviar ingeniously reposing among clusters of chopped onions, eggs, and lemons, and, second, at the following menu:

Schneibel and Millie were visibly alarmed at the spectacle of the caviar, while the rest of the party, before the magnitude of the task before them, seemed struck dumb, perceiving which, King O’Leary rose and spoke as follows:

“Friends: You have noticed, I suppose, at the head of the menu, that this is the first annual feed. Now, I’m not much on a speech, and this ain’t a speech. We’re here to get together. That’s my motto: If you’ve got a gold mine or a tooth-ache—get together! Let some one else share it. Sort of struck me that we had as much right to a Christmas of our own as some one else—this is the answer. If any one doesn’t like anything here, or anything goes wrong—blame me. As for me, I hope you’ll like me, as I have made up my mind to like you. And after seeing a lot of this old world, I reckon one of us is just as good as another, and if I brought you together, why—”

Here he stopped suddenly, fidgeted, and sat down, amid immense applause.

In ten minutes the party was off at top speed, every one laughing and rattling on in a high voice, utterly regardless of whether any one was listening or not, as though each had been released from solitary confinement and had to talk for the month of repression endured. The first shyness wore off. They gazed gratefully at King O’Leary and then at each other, wondering why they had kept apart so long, so utterly happy that, at times, they stopped and caught their breaths. To attempt to give an adequate idea of this mixed conflict is impossible. The room rang with such remarks as these:

“I’m going to eat that lobster salad if I die for it.”

“Tootles, where did you find him—he’s wonderful!”

“Waiter—hist, waiter—a little more of that there pig, and a bit of the bark!”

“Teagan, you’re all right—here’s to you!”

“Get out of my plate, you dog! Oh, you wanted to help me to some succotash? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Whache think o’ the swell that’s movin’ in at the corner? Didche ask him to the party?”

“Say, I’ll tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“He’s got a real fur coat—real fur.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Sorry he’s not moved in yet.”

“Sure he is. Didn’t Pansy get a squint in his studio? He came in to-day,” said Belle.

“Who else didn’t come?” said Myrtle Popper (who had vowed to eat lobster), looking at King O’Leary from her smiling green eyes.

“Drinkwater and the girl at the end.”

“Oh, her!”

“Lady Vere de Vere.”

“Sonderson’s all right,” said Belle Shaler loudly. “What’s wrong? Couldn’t she see you?”

Tootles, who had placed himself next to Pansy, who looked unusually fragrant, indignantly defended himself amid shouts of laughter. And they had just risen joyously, when the door opened and Drinkwater’s high face and roving eyes appeared.

“Sorry, most sorry. Didn’t get your invitation until just now,” he said, sliding in. He spoke just above a whisper, every fifth word interrupted by a nervous blowing out of the breath through his nose, which he tweaked constantly. “Am I too late?”

“Not at all; you’re welcome, Drinkwater. This is open house to-night,” said King O’Leary, with outstretched hand. “My name’s O’Leary. Come on and meet the bunch.”

The new arrival cast a momentary chill on the group, a new element difficult to assimilate, while several remarked that he came in as the thirteenth—a coincidence which many later recalled. There was something too eager, too effusive in his greeting as he made the rounds. When he came to the baron, the latter barely acknowledged his salute with the slightest of nods, a reception which Drinkwater did not appear to notice in the least. When the introductions were over, he went directly to the side of Pansy, to the evident and rising amazement of Tootles.

However, the tree was waiting, and amid the shock of surprise at the unexpected appearance of presents, neatly done up and addressed to each, they momentarily forgot the unwelcome element. In default of the usual bazaars O’Leary had returned with the spoils of half a dozen pawn-shops. There was an old black-lace fan with carved ivory sticks for Miss Quirley, which so exactly matched her gown that she sat down and cried, quietly confessing, in a burst of confidence, that it replaced one she had been forced to sell a dozen years before. There were brooches and bracelets for the other ladies, not imitations but real silver and gold with genuine stones—which left them enraptured and stupefied. The baron, Drinkwater, and Schneibel received stick-pins, while Tootles and Flick were themselves amazed to receive each a real-gold watch. To escape the torrent of thanks, King O’Leary, blushing and happy, bolted to the piano; the colored orchestra, which had just arrived, struck up, and in a moment the whole company was whirling around the studio, from which the tables had disappeared.

In the midst of the second dance, Madame Probasco, the medium directly below, rushed up in stormy protest, followed by a Mr. Dean, a pale young man who was studying to be a veterinary surgeon. Madame Probasco was a fat, rolly lady, dressed in Gypsy shawls and glittering ear-rings, whose yellow corkscrew curls, streaked with gray, came straggling over her washed-out features so that she looked more like a wild spirit herself than one who was supposed to tame them and call them forth. At the sight of Mrs. Teagan revolving in the arms of Flick, and the landlord himself capering with Belle Shaler in a step absolutely his own, her anger vanished in open-mouthed amazement, and before she could recover, King O’Leary had her about the waist and spinning among the others, while the pale young man who had been craning over her shoulder, fled bashfully.

Sassafras now came in for an exhibition of double shuffling and a visit to the punch-bowl. Mr. and Mrs. Teagan, already in uproarious spirits, followed with an Irish jig, whereupon Schneibel volunteered to give an exhibition of yodeling.

By this time, several facts were apparent to all: first, that Myrtle Popper and Minnie Brewster had eyes only for King O’Leary, of which he seemed quite unconscious, and second, that the introduction of Drinkwater into the group was destined to have disagreeable consequences. Tootles, who was good humor itself, was in a thundering rage at the lawyer’s continued attentions to Pansy, who, strange to say, seemed rather to relish them.

“Damn him! Why doesn’t he keep his eyes quiet?” he said to Belle Shaler, who was trying to pacify him. “What’s he trying to discover around here, anyhow? He’d better be careful what he does. Why—the cheeky blackguard!”

This exclamation was drawn from him by the sight of Drinkwater, who had maneuvered Pansy under the mistletoe (which every one seemed to have neglected up to the present), availing himself of this undeniable privilege. Tootles started forward angrily, and there is no telling what might have happened had not King O’Leary, who had noticed his fury, saved the day by catching Miss Quirley in the same predicament amid shrieks of laughter. Tootles, in the general scramble that now took place, was forced to relinquish his grouch, while King O’Leary, profiting by a favorable moment, caught Drinkwater’s arm not too gently and swung him around.

“Look out—you hurt!” said the latter, with an exclamation of pain.

“Sorry,” said King O’Leary, squeezing the harder, “but a word to you. Go easy—you’re trespassing—do you get me?”

To any other, Drinkwater might have returned an impudent answer—one indeed was on his lips; but he looked a second time at King O’Leary’s steady eyes, scowled, and turned away, for a while at least devoting himself elsewhere. Mr. Cornelius, who had witnessed the episode, came to King O’Leary and offered his hand with dignity.

“Thanks, Meester O’Leary. If you had not do it, I should have! The man is canaille!”

To the surprise of every one, Flick volunteered to sing a comic song, at the conclusion of which it was voted, on Tootles’ motion, that it was the sentiment of the assemblage that he should never be permitted a second transgression. Millie Brewster, to offset Flick’s offending, was prevailed upon to sing, and chose to render “The Lass o’ Bonnie Dundee,” which she sang in such a sweet if slight voice that a sudden gloom fell about the room, as though through the fragile illusion of jollity they had so courageously built up, the hard, lonely facts of their lives had suddenly struck in. Mr. Cornelius was tugging at his mustache; Tootles, whose cup was overflowing anyhow, was staring glumly ahead, while through the heavy silence could be heard the sniffle of Miss Quirley and the throaty sob of Madame Probasco, who had become more and more human.

“I, too, will sing a sentimental ballad,” said Schneibel, his red-bobbed head glowing with redder enthusiasm.

“No, you won’t,” said King O’Leary resolutely. “I know the kind of stuff you love—moonbeams and gravestones! Nothing but yodeling for you, old friend Schneibel! Here, we’ve got to break this up! Every one on the floor, and all tune up. Who knows ‘We’ll all go down to Casey’s’?—Good! Come on now, knock the blues higher than a kite. One—two—three!”

“Right over again and faster,” said King O’Leary. “That’s the way, Miss Quirley; you’re a sport. That’s right—thump the floor; beat time anyhow!”

They were chanting this memory-haunting snatch for the third time, clapping hands in rhythm and struggling amid laughter to get their breaths, when the door was flung violently open and Dangerfield appeared, top-hat, fur coat and the gleam of a white tie.

The chorus died down immediately. Every one was struck by the strangeness of his entrance. He looked bigger and rougher than he was, muffled up in the great coat, with a flurry of snow on the shoulders, over which could be seen the white of two other faces peering curiously in. He took off his hat slowly, as he saw the company, but in a dazed way, and stood there blinking at them, for all the world like a great bear wandering into the glare of a camp-fire. There was indeed something restless and shaggy about him that struck them all as he stood there, staring into the room. The head was full and round with an abundance of curly black hair, grizzled at the temples, with one white lock that rose from the forehead like a white flame. The face was wide-spaced and rather flat, the yellow-green eyes were deep set with distended pupils, very animal-like—eyes that glowed and set in sudden fixed stares.

Evidently the party had startled him—perhaps it was the presence of women, which he had not foreseen, for after a moment he seemed to recover himself with an effort and said a few words which caused his companions to scuttle away and took a step into the room, smiling courteously, without a trace of the former wild, almost unbalanced stare.

“I am afraid I owe you an apology,” he said quietly. “My friends mistook this for my studio. I hope you will forgive the rudeness of my intrusion.”

During the moments which had followed the flying open of the door, the entire company had remained hushed under the spell of the brusque incident. Every one had the same feeling—there was something out of place with the man, dressed as he was, here in the Arcade alone on Christmas night—something indefinably wrong, though what it was each would have been hard put to it to express. In this short moment, where each man felt that he was in trouble, there was something about him, a certain weakness or a certain childlike wildness, that went to the heart of every woman present—a quality the man had of being lovable (for it was unconscious) despite all his faults. He had bowed and started to withdraw, before King O’Leary came to.

“Hold up, friend—you must be Dangerfield, aren’t you?”

“Dangerfield?” said the new arrival, stopping. “Yes, that’s my name.”

“Then you’ve fallen in right. There’s an invitation waiting for you in your room for this same shebang.”

“An invitation?” said Dangerfield slowly, and he passed his hand over his brow, which was splendid and open. Many noticed the effort which he seemed to put into his words. “I was out, probably. If I had been there, I assure you I would have come with the greatest of pleasure. It’s my loss,” he added, with a smile that seemed to appeal for their friendship.

“Never too late, neighbor. This is a get-together party. Drop your duds and join us.”

“May I? Thank you,” he said, but he continued to stand there without a move to shed his overcoat, until Flick, who had been watching him narrowly, approached, saying:

“Let me give you a hand. Wilder’s my name. Glad to know you.”

He seemed to recall himself, and slipped from the heavy coat.

A curious thing among the many curious things of this night was that immediately all the others came up to be introduced to Dangerfield, with an instinctive tribute, or the feeling that the man was in deep trouble. Drinkwater was among the first, his nervous, prying little eyes fairly fastened on the other in his excitement. Dangerfield shook each hand cordially, with a smile that seemed to transform his whole expression into one of democracy and kindliness, giving to his greeting of each woman present a touch of exquisite deference.

Then a strange thing happened.

“Mr. Cornelius,” said King O’Leary. “There’s a string of names I wouldn’t dare tackle. We call him ‘the baron.’”

“Mr. Cornelius, I am very—” said Dangerfield, and then raised his head and stopped short. The baron, too, was staring at him as though he had seen a vision of the past, mumbling over and over as though dissatisfied, “Meester Dangerfeel—Dangerfeel——”

It was only a moment, but every one perceived it, while Drinkwater’s face was fairly quivering with interest. Each caught himself up and bowed, but for a moment across the face of Dangerfield had come again that sudden, startled, bearlike stare which seemed the frightened uprising of another nature struggling within him.

What happened after that came so suddenly that few could remember it clearly. The orchestra had broken into a rattling two-step, and the studio was shaking with the shuffling of feet; Dangerfield had not moved from his original position, and remained thus staring for so long a while that most had forgotten him, when all of a sudden there was a warning shout from Tootles, a scream from Pansy, and the next moment Dangerfield had reeled and fallen with a crash to the floor.

There was a babel of cries—some one calling to the orchestra to stop, Miss Quirley sobbing, and the baron calling for a glass of water, while Mr. Teagan rushed to and fro volubly, doing nothing at all—when in the midst of this turmoil, without any one knowing how she had gotten there, or indeed, noticing anything strange in her appearance, Inga Sonderson was seen kneeling at the side of the fallen man, examining him quietly and in a businesslike manner.

“He must be carried into his own room,” she said, after a quick examination. “When he comes to, there must be quiet—absolute quiet. He must be gotten there now.” Her eyes fell on King O’Leary. “You’re strong; can you carry him?”

For answer he stooped and lifted the senseless body, but not without an effort, for the man was powerfully built. Every one seemed at once to turn to Inga, as though recognizing a providential authority.

“Is he alive?”

“What was it—heart-stroke?”

“Apoplexy?”

“But is his studio ready?”

“His studio is ready,” said Inga quietly. She nodded to O’Leary. “Carry him in now. The rest stay here.” She glanced around. “I think the party had better end. There must be quiet. Belle, I shall want cold cloths; and Mr. Teagan, you had better send for a doctor. Baker is over on Sixty-seventh Street. Better telephone.”

Leaving the crowd, flustered and frightened, to disperse into whispering groups, she went down the hall to the corner studio, which was piled with packing-cases in an indescribable confusion. In one corner, very black and white in the glare of the center-light, was a four-poster bed, and on it the sprawling figure of Dangerfield. She went to it straight and silent, knelt again, felt the pulse, lifted the eyelids, while King O’Leary waited.

“Well,” he said, as she arose. “D.T.’s, isn’t it?”

“Only a part of it—I think,” she said, looking down at the powerful figure that looked more like a stricken animal than ever. The curious thing is that it never occurred to King O’Leary to ask what she intended to do. He seemed to accept her as a fact, just as naturally as she had assumed control. She stood a moment silent, her finger on her lips, looking down, and then drew herself together with a sort of shudder, looked at King O’Leary, who was watching her, and said:

“Undress him and get him into bed. Then call me.”

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