Tootle’s sentimental difficulties were the more annoying inasmuch as he had only himself to blame, though he had this excuse: that the plight in which he found himself floundering, according to the caprices of the most fascinating game of chance in the world, was one into which many a satisfied male idol has precipitated himself unwittingly. In brief, up to the advent of the Christmas party and Drinkwater’s impertinent intrusion, Tootles had been adored because he was in the strategical position of permitting the adoration. During this time, Pansy, enraptured with Tootles’ sartorial splendor, his aristocratic features (which reminded one of a footman or a duke), his holiday English intonation, and finding him only languidly interested, was overjoyed at his condescension and quite miserable at his displeasure when she forgot and shifted her pose. Her eyes showed plainly her adoration, and she hurried gratefully to his call whenever Tootles would come rapping at the door, saying in his impertinent manner:

“Miss Hartmann, Mr. St. George Kidder will receive you for half an hour—for only half an hour, mind you. He has a sitter at three—a lady of the highest society, who wishes her visits to remain unsuspected.”

The more coolly the young scamp took her adoration, the more she adored him; and matters might have gone on thus indefinitely, had not Tootles been so amateurish as to resent the attentions of Drinkwater. Overnight the whole face of the world was changed, and from being pursued by a beautiful nymph who trembled under the favor of his smile, Tootles, to his indignation, found himself the pursuer, without quite comprehending how the transformation had been worked. He was as astonished (as he himself expressed it) as the fleeing rabbit circling around a tree is to find himself abruptly pursuing the dog. Miss Pansy, from a grateful young lady with her heart at her finger-tips, became overnight a delighted and outrageous little flirt, maliciously bent on tormenting him to the limit of his endurance. Tootles, not having sense enough to stop and run in the opposite direction, continued with wrath and fury to pursue the tantalizing eyes which danced at him over her fleeing shoulder, until he was ready to believe that the love and likewise the tragedy of his life had descended upon him.

Belle Shaler’s trifling allusion to Drinkwater had aroused the atavistic yearning for murder in simple or exaggerated degrees in his usually easy-going nature. He stopped before the door of her studio a moment, frowning darkly, before deciding, with supreme cunning, to disguise his misery under a countenance of excessive joy. Pansy, to his relief, was there, camped in a green-plush rocking-chair, sewing on something pink and filmy. On the center-table was a very large vase of chrysanthemums. When Tootles perceived this, his gaiety descended, so to speak, into the cellar. He entered the room with a forced dapperness, saying:

“Have the diamonds come yet, or would you prefer pearls?”

The room was divided by a green-baize curtain which concealed the domestic arrangements and the oil-stove. Popular full-pages in color from magazines and newspapers littered the walls, while different articles of furniture were decked out in ribbons and ruffles, which gave them the effect of displaying their lingerie. A sewing-machine was disguised under an Eastern blanket, while the bed-couches were piled with fancy pillows, depicting such romantic scenes as a mother-bird feeding its young; a tennis-match entitled “Love All,” the noble red Indians around a camp-fire, and another, adorned with a red-cheeked damsel with her hand behind her head and her legs out of proportion, inscribed “An American Beauty.” Tootles saw none of these details, nor the kimono-covered screen, nor the knicknacks on the desk representing dogs with pipes in their mouths, rabbits in the form of match-safes and a young man kissing a young lady over a stile. He saw only the chrysanthemums.

“Oh, hello!” said Pansy, continuing at her work.

“Who’s that?” said Belle, sticking her head through the curtains. “Oh, it’s only you!”

Tootles put his hand on his heart and made several rapid bows.

“Thanks—thanks for this ovation!”

“What have ye been doing all this while?” Pansy condescended to say, and, as though this were a soul-confidence, she raised her eyes liquidly and allowed her glance to flutter in his in one of those destructive looks which do not need to be taught at high school.

“It’s my birthday,” said Tootles, hoping to derive some future advantage; “and I am arranging for my friends to give me a surprise-party.”

“Go wan,” said Pansy, who, having treated him to a melting look, now froze him with one of indifferent disdain. However, the scent of dinner in the air demanded a certain diplomacy. She smiled. “What is it—feed or show?”

“It is my birthday,” said Tootles indignantly. “Don’t you think I was born, the same as you?”

“Come off!” said Belle, who emerged from behind the curtains with her hat on. “I’ll bet they picked you off a tree.”

“My dear girl,” said Tootles, who resorted to his defensive English accent, “it would be far better if you attended to your own troubles. At this very moment, Flick may be a suicide. He started for the river.”

“He may choke to death,” said Belle scornfully, “but he’ll never end in water.”

“He is exceedingly distressed,” said Tootles, who was afraid that, if he annoyed her, she might stay. “Well, girls, the automobile will be here at seven. Those who love me are invited.” And as he was still fearful that she might linger, he added artfully, with an admiring glance at her slender body and saucy face tucked under a fur toque that set off her rebellious shock of hair, “Belle, I particularly want you; I like to be surrounded by beautiful women.”

As Belle Shaler was both human and feminine, she was grateful, and showed it, first by abuse, and then by a bit of advice.

“Try that on some one from the green grass,” she said, with a tilt of her nose. “Oh, I’ll be there.” And she added, patting his cheek: “Well, he’s a nice boy, only”—this in a lower tone, with a glance at Pansy—“don’t be a softy, Tootles—give her hell.”

Tootles answered her with a manly glare, to convince her of his inflexibility, and the door once closed behind her, flung a leg over the table, flirted with the work-basket, waited unsuccessfully for Pansy to take the initiative, and ended by saying:

“Well, how about it?”

“About what?” said Pansy, looking up as though she had just perceived his presence.

“Those who love me are invited,” said Tootles, folding his arms and giving her a killing look, as he remembered his favorite romantic actor, Mr. Wilbur Montague, would have done in such a situation.

“Do you want me to come?”

Saying which, she put down the sewing and looked again into his eyes with a tender look that seemed to say, “‘Why hide what’s in your heart, dear?’”

“Oh, no,” said Tootles, falling back on sarcasm as he felt himself crumbling weakly; “I came here expressly to beg you to refrain.”

“Now you’re cross,” said Pansy, quite delighted. “I suppose it’s them flowers.”

“What flowers?” said Tootles, looking around in surprise. He examined them and added: “Wired! Cheap stuff. Now, isn’t that just like a shyster lawyer!”

“Silly!” said Pansy, bursting into laughter. “How do ye know that ain’t for Belle?”

“Really?” said Tootles, beaming as though the sun had suddenly entered the room.

“Goose!”

“You’ve been mean enough to me,” said Tootles, taking her hand. “You might let up.”

“Do you really want me to come?” said Pansy, smiling all over.

“Want you? Why, you beautiful creature,” said Tootles, ecstatically, “come, and I’ll go before you with a dust-pan and dust the way! That’s how much I want you.”

These higher flights from Tootles always moved Pansy, who had a penchant for refined romance. She relented, and there was quite an important discussion as to whether Tootles did not, in fact, really believe that Myrtle Popper’s eyes were more unusual than hers, and favor the figure of Belle Shaler. All of which would have had an agreeable ending, had not Belle returned and let the cat out of the bag by asking Pansy if she might wear some of her chrysanthemums.

When Tootles returned, to find King O’Leary in a perplexed self-examination, he was in a fearful state. He slammed the door and dove on the couch, where he gave an exhibition of tearing his hair which would have inspired Mr. Wilbur Montague himself to envy.

“Say, what is this?” said O’Leary, after a moment of amazement. “Love or bills?”

Tootles’ remarks, while intelligible, remained outside the limits of organized speech which the wise fathers who established the dictionary as an uplift have imposed. In the end, when calm had returned, he arose and said, with terrific impressiveness:

“That ends it! King, take witness—I’m through—I’m cured!”

“Oh, Pansy’s a good sort, all right,” said O’Leary, understanding.

“Good sort! Yes; certainly. Do tell me why I, St. George Kidder, with a career, with fame and with riches, a future, should be running after a little smudgy-eyed slip of a girl who hasn’t a thought in her head.”

“Oh, now!”

“She hasn’t. King, I swear she is positively stupid! Fact. Now, honestly, what gets me, why am I pattering at her heels—why?”

“She has beautiful eyes, son.”

“Do you think that’s enough? No; it’s not enough!”

“Well, that depends how close they are,” said King O’Leary ruefully, thinking of other eyes.

“Do you see me now?” said Tootles fiercely. “I am calm. I am not saying this because I am excited. I am calm. Now listen: I can look at myself and see what’s what. King, I am cured! There’s nothing—nothing there. A pretty face, yes—but that’s all. Drinkwater can have her. I don’t care now. It’s only vanity—just low, despicable vanity, with me, I admit. Thank heaven, I am strong enough to admit it, and because I admit it, I can laugh at it!” He gave an imitation of great hilarity. “Lord, King, what asses we can be!”

Belle Shaler rapped at the door.

“Hey there, Tootles!”

“Well, what?” growled Tootles, stopping short.

“Pansy wants to speak to you.”

“Oh, she does? Well, I’m in the bathtub,” said Tootles, and, as the steps went down the hall, he whistled blithely at King O’Leary, and said:

“You see?”

“Sure; but why did you give a lie?”

“I dislike undignified discussions,” said Tootles loftily.

“Well, on the whole, I think you’re right about the girls,” said O’Leary. “We’ll give them a grand-stand finish to-night, and then we’ll get down to tacks.”

Flick came in with his hat over his eyes, saying gloomily:

“Is the wake still on?”

While King O’Leary was explaining the finality of the ceremony, there came a rush and tap outside, and the voice of Belle Shaler cried:

“Tootles, Pansy’s cut her finger.”

“Good Lord!” said Tootles, who sprang from the imaginary bathtub to the door, to find Belle Shaler confronting him with a scornful glance.

“Hmm! Bathtub! Well, young man, I know what I’d do to you.”

But behind Belle was Pansy, with soulful eyes, holding out an imploring hand, saying in the voice of an angel:

“Tootles—please!”

Tootles went, and when he returned, he said triumphantly, deadened to all sense of shame:

“It was all Belle’s doing. The flowers were hers. I suppose I was a little hasty.”

They departed in taxi-cabs at seven sharp. Tootles in evening dress, pleasantly aware of the admiring glance of Pansy, directed at the irreproachable set of his white cravat; Flick with collar reversed and a black-silk square drawn over the opening of his vest; while the problem of passing King O’Leary through the barriers of evening dress was solved by the simple expedient of taking the part out of his hair and decorating him with a flowing tie, which, as Tootles aptly remarked, made the difference between a genius and a piker. In case of need he was to be addressed as “Prince Olgoff.” Despite these precautions and Tootles’ finished air of distilling money, whether due to the irreverent expression of Flick or some suspicion of the virtuosity of King O’Leary, they were held up at the door of the brilliant dining-room. While they were fidgeting under the expert scrutiny of the head waiter, the ladies all aflutter, who should come up from a near-by table but Dangerfield.

“Friends of mine, Oscar,” he said. “One of your best tables.”

He glanced at Flick’s clerical make-up with a twinkle in his eye, but under Tootles’ cautious look he checked himself and took the introductions gravely, and only Flick, who had noted the apprehensive glances of the group of men he had left, divined under the correctness of his attitude the fierce struggle for control which was going on.

“Did you get the name the head waiter called him?” said O’Leary to Tootles, as they were ushered to a corner table with honors due to an ambassador.

“No.”

“Neither did I, but it was not Dangerfield—hello!”

“What is it?”

O’Leary, whose eyes had found some one in the crowd, mumbled an evasive explanation and proceeded to arrange the table with special attention to the placing of Tootles and Pansy.

The evening made a terrific impression on the ladies, whose eyes began to glow more kindly under the spell of the lights and the music and the awed recognition of what each dish must cost. They went to a comic opera in a box, in full view of an audience, took supper among the highest paying social strata, oblivious of the rising fear in the breasts of Flick and Tootles lest O’Leary might make an error in subtraction. King, in fact, had calculated so fine that he was forced to send the others ahead while he picked a quarrel with the waiter to save the tip for the journey home, where they ended, so to speak, in a dead heat. At that, disaster had hovered near while Flick was arguing Belle Shaler out of a second ice.

“Did you see him?” O’Leary found a moment to whisper to Flick.

“Never thought he’d get out of the door,” said Wilder, who had watched Dangerfield’s perilous exit.

“No, not Dangerfield—Drinkwater,” said O’Leary. “I was afraid Tootles would see him.”

“That ferret! Was he there? Chasing Pansy, eh?”

“No—he was there on other business,” said O’Leary. “Mark my words, he’s on Dangerfield’s trail, boy. There’s some dirty business in the wind.”

Tootles approached, and they switched the conversation. Each couple now showed such a desire to linger in the shadows that they arrived at the sixth floor well together.

“Mr. St. George Kidder has a few words to say,” said Flick gravely.

Tootles, the stage having been thus set, brought one lock of hair over his forehead in the wild, romantic way of a true genius, and said:

“Charming and beautiful women—we thank you! We thank you for being just what you are—charming and beautiful! We thank you the more because to-night we say farewell. You laugh, you doubt me—but the laugh is on you. You thought to roll on forever in luxury. To-night you have assisted at our farewell appearance as gilded dispensers of ill-gotten wealth.”

“Amen!” said Flick and O’Leary, in sepulchral chorus.

“Despite your sneers, your abuse, your cruel misunderstandings,” continued Tootles, charmed with the sound of his own voice, “we have shown you how artists dispense their wealth. While gold flowed from our pockets, we planned only how to give you pleasure. Now that we face a cold, hard dawn, without a cent, without a friend, but proudly, with the inspiration of our art, we do not wait to be abandoned by you—we say farewell!”

“You’re broke?” said the three girls, in horrified chorus.

“Broke!” said the three men, delighted; and, falling into lockstep, their hats waving gaily, they marched roaring with laughter down the hall and into their room.

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