Goldwin Leathersham was a great Captain of Industry. In fact, he put the dust in industry, or, at least, he took it out of it. He got it, anyway.

His home was an Aladdin's Palace, with a slight influence of Solomon's Temple. Gold was his keynote, and he was never off the key.

When our Petticoats arrived at the party, they were met by gold-laced footmen, who whisked them into shape and passed them along.

Warble found herself in a white and gold salon, so vast, that she felt like a goldfish out of water. The place looked as if Joseph Urban had designed it after he had died and gone to Golconda. Whatever wasn't white was gold, and the other way round. The gold piano had only white keys, and the draperies were cloth of gold with bullion fringe. All real, too—no rolled or plated stuff.

A huge coat-of-arms in a gold frame announced that Mr. Leathersham was descended from the Gold Digger Indians, a noble ancestry indeed; and it was no secret that his wife had played in “The Gold-diggers,” during its second decade run.

Marigold Leathersham was a charming hostess, and greeted Warble with a shriek of welcome. “You duck,” she cried; “how heavenly of you to dress so well.”

Warble was simply attired in a white pussy-willow silk underslip. In her haste and excitement she had forgotten to add the gown meant to go over it, and as she wore no jewels save the chased gold lingerie clasps at her shoulders, the result was a simplicity as charming as it was unintentional.

And so she made a hit.

That was the way things came to Warble; a hit—a social success—and all because she forgot to put on her frock.

She mingled with the glittering throng of gilded youth, of golden lads and girls, of gilt-edged married people, and found herself in the arms of Goldwin Leathersham, her host.

“Here comes the bride,” he shouted, as he piloted her about and introduced everybody to her.

“This demure little beauty,” he said, “is Daisy Snow. Note her sweet, pure face and wide-eyed, innocent gaze.”

“It is all so new—so wonderful—” Miss Snow breathed, “I'm a dÉbutante, you know, and I have scarcely butterflied out of my chrysalis yet. How splendid the Leathershams are. He has a heart of gold. Oh, he is such a good man, he says his life motto is the Golden Rule.”

“And Mrs. Leathersham?” asked Warble.

“Marigold? Oh, yes, she's as good as gold, too. We're firm friends.”

Warble was agog to mingle, so she moved on.

Le Grand Paynter, a celebrated Cubic artist, fascinated her with his flowing locks, flowing tie and marvelous flow of conversation. He asked to paint her as a Semi-nude Descending a Ladder, but she only said she must refer him to her Petticoat.

Freeman Scattergood, the well-known philanthropist was chatting with Mrs. Charity Givens, who was the champion Subscription List Header. Many had tried to oust her from this enviable position but without success. Near them stood Avery Goodman, the rector, and he was deeply engaged in a flirtation with Miss May Young, one of his choir girls.

Manley Knight, a returned soldier, was resplendent with a Croix de Guerre, a Hot Cross Bun and many other Noughts and Crosses.

Warble fingered them in her light way.

“Isn't he splendid!” babbled Daisy Snow the ingÉnue; “Oh, how wonderful to offer one's life for glory! You can fairly see the heroism bubble out of his eyes!”

“How you admire him!” said Warble.

“Yes, but he doesn't care for me.”

“Not specially,” admitted Manley Knight. “Yes,” Daisy said. “He thinks me too ignorant and unsophisticated—and I am. Now, there's Lotta Munn, the heiress—she's more in his line. But Ernest Swayne is devoted to Lotta. I think it will be a real love match—like the Trues.”

“The Trues?” asked Warble, politely.

“Yes,” and she glanced toward a very devoted looking pair sitting apart from the rest, on a small divan. “They're wonderful! Herman True is the most marvelous husband you ever saw. He never speaks to anyone but his wife. And she's just the same. She was Faith Loveman, you know. And they've been married two years and are still honeymoon lovers! Ah, what a fate!”

Daisy sighed, a sweet little-girly sigh, and blushed like a slice of cold boiled ham.

But this Who's Whosing was interrupted by a footman with a tray of cocktails.

Daisy Snow refused, of course, as became a dÉbutante so did Judge Drinkwater, who stood near by, frowning upon the scene, he being a Prohibitionist.

A sickly looking lady next to him achieved several, and Warble asked Daisy who she might be.

“Oh, that's Iva Payne—you met her, you know. She's very delicate, a semi-invalid, under the care of specialists all the time. I don't exactly know what her malady is, but it's something very interesting to the doctors. There's scarcely anything she can eat—I believe she brings her own specially prepared food to parties.

“She seems to relish the cock-a-whoops all right,” Warble commented.

“I understand the doctors prescribe stimulants for her—she is not at all strong. They give her artificial strength, she says.”

“Yes, she seems to be strong for 'em. Don't you take any?”

“Oh no! I'm a dÉbutante. And mother says she wants to be with me when I take my first cocktail and smoke my first cigarette.”

“Dear girl, Daisy, so fresh and unspoiled! Her mother is one of a thousand.”

This from Manley Knight, who constituted himself Daisy's proxy in the matter of cocktails and drank all that would have been Daisy's had her mother permitted.

Goldwin Leathersham seemed to be acting as proxy for some dÉbutante also, for he seemed to feel pretty bobbish, but Warble was only slightly interested in the whole matter.

She rolled her Wedgwooden eyes about, hoping the horde would be herded toward the dining-room. But no such luck.

Instead they drifted in the opposite direction and, swept along with the crowd, Warble found herself in one of a serried series of gilt chairs, facing a platform as large as a theater stage.

An erudite looking man who appeared on the platform received tumultous applause.

“Who is he?” Warble whispered to her neighbor, who chanced to be Avery Goodman, “an impersonator?”

“Lord, no; it's Wunstone, the great scientist—rants on Fourth Avenue dimensions, or something like that.”

In a tone of forceful mildness the speaker began: “It must be conceded that, other things being equal, and granting the investiture of all insensate communication, that a psychic moment may or may not, in accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, become warily regarded as a coherent symbol by one obviously of a trenchant humor. But, however, in proof of a smouldering discretion, no feature is entitled to less exorbitant honor than the unquenchable demand of endurance.

“Though, of course, other things being equal, and granting the investiture of all insensate communication, no feature is entitled, in accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, to become warily regarded as a coherent symbol. And doubtless in proof of a smouldering discretion, and in accordance with one obviously of a trenchant humor, it may or may not be warily regarded.

“Though it cannot be denied that the true relevancy of thought to psychic action is largely dependent on the ever increasing forces of disregarded symbolisms. And this again proves the pantheistic power of doubt, considered for the moment and for the subtle purposes of our argument as faith. For, granting that two and two are six, the corollary reasoning must be that no premise is or may be capable of such conclusion as will render it sublunary to its agreed parallel.

“But this view is ultra and should be adopted with caution.

“We are therefore forced to the conclusion that pure altruism is impossible in connection with neo-psychology.”

There was more, but it was at that point that Warble went to sleep.

She was awakened later by the high notes of a celebrated Metropolitan soprano, who had consented to exchange a few of her liquid notes for Goldwin Leathersham's yellow-backed ones.

Tired, hungry and sleepy, Warble fidgeted in her little gilt chair, but the music went inexorably on.

It was followed by the appearance of a Neo Poet.

This man wore eccentric dress of some sort, and as he waited for the applause to melt away, he stood, absent-mindedly picking crumbs out of his beard.

By subtle hint of auto-suggestion this made Warble hungrier than ever and she looked around for Petticoat. But he was busy flirting with Daisy Snow, and it was not Warble's way to cut in.

In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions from the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, and Warble went back to sleep.

There was more, but no merrier, and when at last the platform was cleared for the last time, the guests were refreshed by the passing of a small glass of punch and a wafer to each.

Then they went, with a flutter of silk stockings and twinkling slipper buckles, and a medley of shrieked goodbys.

Warble and Petticoat reached home.

“Howja like 'em?” he asked.

“I'm so hungry,” she wailed.

“Oh, Warble, you ought to be more careful about eating in public. It isn't done. Watch Iva Payne—she doesn't.”

“Oh, Bill—” Warble began to cry. “I want to go back to the restaurant—”

“No, no—now, Cream Puff, I didn't mean to lambaste you. But they're a smart crowd—”

Warble let two tears rest, glistening, in her lower eyelashes, rolled up her eyes, pulled down the corners of her hibiscus flower mouth, and waited to be kissed.

She was.

Up in Bill's bedroom. Gray silken walls, smoked pearl furniture, a built-in English bed, with gray draperies.

Through a cloth of silver portiÉre, a bathroom done in gray rough stone. Oxidized silver plumbing exposure.

No pictures on the walls, save one—a barbaric Russian panel by Larrovitch.

At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk—all gray.

A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon it and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the quarrel.

“They took to you,” he said, “you went like hot cakes!”

It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging smile, wheedled, “Pleathe, pleathe—”

“No,” Petticoat said, inexorably, “if you eat all the time you'll get to look like that soprano. Howja like that?”

“Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?”

“Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're my—well, you're my soulmate.”

“Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. You must excuse my appetite—you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!”

He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about his neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street.