So about eight-thirty we meets again, and' proceeds to hunt up this studio buildin' over in the East 30's. It ain't any b.u.m Bohemian ranch, either, but a ten-story elevator joint, with clipped bay trees on each side of the front door. Virgie's is a top floor suite, with a boy in b.u.t.tons outside and a French maid to take your things.

"Gee!" I whispers to Whity as we pushes in. "There's some swell mob collectin', eh?"

Whity is speechless, though, and when he gets his breath again all he can do is mumble husky, "Teddy Van Alstyne! Mrs. Cromer Paige! The Bertie Gardiners!"

They acted like a mixed crowd, though, gazin' around at each other curious, groupin' into little knots, and chattin' under their breath.

Bein' gents of the press, we edges into a corner behind a palm and waits to see what happens.

"There comes Cousin Inez!" says I, nudgin' Whity. "See? The squatty dame with the pearl ropes over her hair."

"Sainted Billikens, what a make-up!" says Whity.

And, believe me, Cousin Inez was dolled for fair. She'd peeled for the fray, as you might say. And if the d.i.n.ky shoulder straps held it was all right; but if one of 'em broke there'd sure be some hurry call for four yards of burlap to do her up in. She seems smilin' and happy, though, and keeps glancin' expectant at the red velvet draperies in the back of the room.

Sure enough, exactly on the tick of nine, the curtains part, and in steps the hero of the evenin'. Dress suit? Say, you don't know Virgie. He's wearin' a reg'lar monk's outfit, of some coa.r.s.e brown stuff belted in with a thick rope and open wide at the neck.

"For the love of beans, look at his feet!" I whispers.

"Sandals," says Whity, "and no socks! Blessed if Virgie isn't going the limit!"

There's a chorus of "Ah-h-h-h's!" as he steps out, and then comes a buzz of whispers which might have been compliments, and might not. But it don't faze Virgie. He goes bowin' and handshakin' through the mob, smilin' mushy on all and several, and actin' as pleased with himself as if he'd taken the prize at a fancy dress ball. You should have seen Cousin Inez when he gets to her!

"Oh, you utterly clever man!" she gushes. "What a genuine genius you are!"

"Dear, sweet lady!" says he. "It is indeed gracious of you to say so."

"Help!" groans Whity, like he had a pain.

"Ah, buck up!" says I. "It'll be your turn soon."

I was wonderin' how Virgie was goin' to simmer down enough to pa.s.s Whity the chilly greetin'; for he's just bubblin' over with kind words and comic little quips. But, say, he don't even try to shade it.

"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_."

"a.s.s!" 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 ca.s.serole on it.

"_Voila_!" sings out Virgie. "The bouillabaisse!"

Marie gets busy pa.s.sin' around bowls and spoons, and the programme seems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin'

out of a long-handled silver ladle. It smells mighty good; so I pushes in with my bowl. What do you guess I drew? A portion of the tastiest fish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams in it. M-m-m-m!

"He may be a punk poet," says I to Whity; "but he's a good provider."

"Huh!" growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hit Virgie's makin'.

Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of been crowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity.

"Isn't this just too unique for words?" she gushes. "And is not dear Virgil perfectly charming tonight?"

"Oh, he's a bear at this sort of thing, all right," says Whity, "this and making cheese."

"Cheese!" echoes Cousin Inez.

"Sure!" says Whity. "Hasn't he told you about his cheese factories?

Ask him."

"But--but I understood that--that he was a poet," says she, "a sculptor poet."

"Bah!" says Whity. "He couldn't make his salt at either. All just a pose!"

"Why, I can hardly believe it," says Cousin Inez. "I don't believe it, either."

"Then read his poetry and look at his so called groups," goes on Whity.

"But he's such a talented, interesting man," insists Inez.

"With such an interesting family too," says Whity, winkin'.

"Family!" gasps Cousin Inez.

"Wife and six children," says Whity, lyin' easy.

"Oh--oh!" squeals Inez in that shrill, raspy voice of hers.

"They say he beats his wife, though," adds Whity.

"Oh!--oh!" squeals Inez, again, higher and shriller than ever. I expect she'd been more or less keyed up before; but this adds the finishin' touch. And she lets 'em out reckless.

Course, everyone stops chatterin' and looks her way. No wonder! You'd thought she was havin' a fit. Over rushes Virgil, ladle in hand.

"My dear Inez!" says he. "What is it? A fishbone?"