“The very thing I was about to propose,” Old Original made reply on his way to the door. The ruler frankly sneered. “Great minds, eh? Are you trying to flatter yourself or me? While you are going, take the wall decorations with you.” He included the courtiers in his gesture. “How many centuries do you obsoletes need to rise to the worst that’s in you? Do you suppose for one split-second--mortal time--that I’d work with evil natures as I have done since that fracas up in Paradise just for the company of the evilest of them through eternity? By to-morrow I shall have decided what to do with such choice parasites. Out with you, or I’ll fit my skeleton key to the trap-door of the bottomless pit and throw you in before your time.” With alacrity which showed their relief at this temporary escape, the seven followed the prime minister through the separating rays of the rear curtain. Satan looked to share their relief that they were gone. For a space silence reigned with him in the throne room except for the snap of his heels upon the floor and the swish of the royal robe. His reflection in one of the mercurized panels of the side walls caused him to halt. For long he studied his face, then, straightening, appreciated his magnificent outlines. A look of satisfaction cleared the frown of evil affairs from his brow. Lifting his crown, he bowed into the mirror. A voice from behind the curtain also saluted him: “‘_No wonder that thy heart was lifted up, that thy wisdom was corrupted by reason of thy brightness._’” “Step out, caitiff. Be as apparent as your flattery. Why do you linger to spy upon me when I order the court cleared?” A Balial glare fixed upon the returned minister’s ingratiating grin. “Not to spy upon you, Sire. Rather, to admire you. You certainly are the Boss of Below for looks.” His Highness, never having outlived his first fault of vanity, gave benefit of doubt to the compliment, as also to the glass-like tumbler bewhiskered with crisp-crackling green held toward him. “I thought Your Majesty’s harassed spirit might feel in need of refreshment, so made bold to have this quaff mixed. It is as near as may be like those they have voted too strong for the United States of America, suh. Here you are--a frappé low-bolt!” Sin proffered both explanation and cup with that irrepressibility which so far had made, but at any moment might break him. With sympathy sips, he watched the sampling of the liquidized current concocted by the first royal bartender, a past-master indeed of the art before it was amended off Forty-second Street and Broadway, New York. “Get the kick?” he asked, fearing as much as hoping that the julep would fail of its effect. Satan threw the goblet on the floor, where it snapped and flashed, but did not break. “If I didn’t, you would.”