The triumvirate had accordingly tied up their brindled bulldogs, “Spit,” “Snap” and “Tug”; had donned their white ties and collars of awful altitude, and were fully prepared to please and to be pleased. Although it was nominally a “stag” party, the triumvirate would as soon have cut off their tender mustaches as have failed to invite Yvonne. But she had replied to Rowden’s invitation by a dainty little note, ending: and I am sure that you will understand when I say that this time I will leave you gentlemen in undisturbed possession of the evening, for I know how dearly men love to meet and behave like bears all by themselves. But I shall see you all afterward at the Opera. Au revoir then—at the Bal Masqué. Y.D. The first sensation to the young men was one of disappointment. But the second was that Mademoiselle Descartes’ tact had not failed her. The triumvirate were seated upon the sideboard swinging their legs. Rowden cast a satisfied glance at the table laid for fifteen and flicked an imaginary speck from his immaculate shirt front. “I think it’s all right,” said Elliott, noticing his look, “eh, Clifford?” “Is there enough champagne?” asked that youth, calculating four quart bottles to each person. Rowden groaned. “Of course there is. What are you made of?” “Human flesh,” acknowledged the other meekly. At eleven the guests began to arrive, welcomed by the triumvirs with great state and dignity. Rowden, looking about, missed only one—Gethryn, and he entered at the same moment. “Just in time,” said Rowden, and made the move to the table. As Gethryn sat down, he noticed that the place on Rowden’s right was vacant, and before it stood a huge bouquet of white violets. “Too bad she isn’t here,” said Rowden, glancing at Gethryn and then at the vacant place. “That’s awfully nice of you, Rowden,” cried Gethryn, with a happy smile; “she will have a chance to thank you tonight.” He leaned over and touched his face to the flowers. As he raised his head again, his eyes met Braith’s. “Hello!” cried Braith, cordially. Rex did not notice how pale he was, and called back, “Hello!” with a feeling of relief at Braith’s tone. It was always so. When they were apart for days, there weighed a cloud of constraint on Rex’s mind, which Braith’s first greeting always dispelled. But it gathered again in the next interval. It rose from a sullen deposit of self-reproach down deep in Gethryn’s own heart. He kept it covered over; but he could not prevent the ghost-like exhalations that gathered there and showed where it was hidden. Speeches began rather late. Elliott made one—and offered a toast to “la plus jolie demoiselle de Paris,” which was drunk amid great enthusiasm and responded to by Gethryn, ending with a toast to Rowden. Rowden’s response was stiff, but most correct. The same could not be said of Clifford’s answer to the toast, “The struggling Artist—Heaven help him!”