and beauty swept proudly past commissionaires and other quite unimportant people. But as late as 5:15 Arminius Wingrove hadn't shown a feather.
A puss in every corner worrying buttered scones and muffins with the aid of silver-plated forks. All across the parquet, under palms and awnings, the latest things by Paquin, toyed with their real old china teacups, and coquetted with toast and bread, butter and Monsieur Eschoffier's most delightful comfit cakes.
Ping went the heart of the heir to the barony; ping went the heart of Philip; but although the strain upon that important organ was terrific, Arminius Wingrove never showed a feather.
The Blue Bulgarian Bazoukas discoursed really delightful music; tunes by Strauss and tunes by Wagner, oratorio by Monckton, masterpiece by Rubens, chic morsels by Debussy, rhapsodies by gentlemen whose names are easier to spell in Russian, the latest expression of the genius of German, things in Spanish, things in French, Elgar and Villiers Stanford, Sullivan and Dr. Parry, Leslie Stuart and the Abbé Liszt—but Arminius Wingrove never showed a feather.
Actually the hour of six had struck. With a glance of despair at the gold hunting repeater of infamous memory, the unhappy young man, for the good of the house, peremptorily ordered a glass of water and a toothpick. Already the motley throng of muffin-wor-
