General Dick and Mr. Jeliffe came next. Solemnly they placed two

cushions on the hearth-rug, solemnly they knelt thereon, facing each

other. Then intently and conscientiously they played the old game of

"Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold." The General's fat hands met

Mr. Jeliffe's thin ones alternately and in unison. Not a mistake did

they make, and, ending out of breath, the General found it hard to rise,

and had to be picked by Porter, like a plump feather pillow.

And now the candles were three!

Then Barry and Delilah danced, a dance which they had practiced together.

It had in it just a hint of wildness, and just a hint of sophistication,

and Delilah in her dress of sapphire chiffon, with its flaring tunic of

silver net, seemed in the nebulous light like some strange bird of the

night.

And now the candles were five!

Following, Leila went to the piano, and Porter and Mary gave a minuet.

They had learned it at dancing-school, and it had been years since they

had danced it. But they did it very well; Porter's somewhat stiff

bearing accorded with its stateliness, and Mary, having added to her

green velvet gown a little Juliet cap of lace and a lace fan, showed the

radiant, almost boyish beauty which had charmed Roger on the night of the

wedding.

His pulses throbbed as he watched her. They were a well-matched pair,

this young millionaire and the pretty maid. And as their orderly steps

went through the dance, so would their orderly lives, if they married,

continue to the end. But what could Porter Bigelow teach Mary Ballard of

the things which touch the stars?

And now the candles were seven! And the spirit of the carnival was upon

the company. Song was followed by story, and story by song--until at

last the room seemed to swim in a golden mist.

And through that mist Mary saw Roger Poole! He was leaning forward a

little, and there was about him the air of a man who waited.

She spoke impetuously.

"Mr. Poole," she said, "please----"

There was not a trace of awkwardness, not a hint of self-consciousness in

his manner as he answered her.

"May I sit here?" he asked. "You see, my pussy cat holds me, and as I

shall tell you about a cat, she gives the touch of local color."

And then he began, his right hand resting on the gray cat's head, his

left upon his knee.

He used no gestures, yet as he went on, the room became still with the

stillness of a captured audience. Here was no stumbling elocution, but a

controlled and perfect method, backed by a voice which soared and sang

and throbbed and thrilled--the voice either of a great orator, or of a

great actor.




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