The Good Man, When-he-falleth-in-Love And-getteth-Snubbed, Breaketh Forth In-to Tears: But-the-Ungawdly Careth Notta Damn! For Woman, She-is-but-Vanity Ay, Verily, and False-Curls. And-the-Wooing Thereof Is Bitterness. For-he-Wasteth-his-Substance-Upon-Her, Taking-her-Pic-nics and Balls. And she Danceth with some Other Feller. Oh-hh SLUSH!!! A window-shade floated sideways, revealing to the peerer's gaze a gnome with blue ears beating out the tempo with the fire-tongs for a quartette, consisting of an aeroplane, a Salvation Army captain, a white rabbit, and an Apache, while a motley crowd circulated around them. In the intensity of his relief, Cyrus the Gaunt took a great resolve: “Invited or not invited, I'm going to that party.” MacLachan's “Home of Fashion” on the corner was long since dark, but Cyrus's pedal fantasia on the panels brought forth the indignant proprietor. “What have you got for me to go to a fancy party in, Mac?” demanded his disturber. “Turnverein or Pansy Social Circle?” inquired the practical tailor. “Neither. A dead swell party.” “Go as ye are-rr, ye fule!” said the Scot, and slammed the door. “Perfectly simple,” said Cyrus the Gaunt. “I'll do it.” He hastened around to Schwartz's to wash his hands and smut his face artistically. III Upon the reiterated testimony of the Oldest Inhabitant, Our Square had never before witnessed such scenes or heard such sounds of revelry by night as the Bonnie Lassie's surprise party, given for her by her friends of the far-away world. None of us was bidden in at first, as the Bonnie Lassie had not the inviting in her hands. But to her--little loyalist that she is!--a celebration without her own neighbors was unthinkable; so she sent her messengers forth and gathered us in from our beds, from Schwartz's, from Lavansky's Pinochle Parlors, from the late shift of the “Socialist Weekly Battlecry,” and even from the Semi-Annual Soirée and Ball of the Sons of Gentlemen of Goerck Street, far out on our boundaries of influence; and though we wore no fancier garb than our best, we made a respectable showing, indeed. Along with the early comers, and while Cyrus the Gaunt was still putting the final touches to his preparation, there appeared at the hospitable door an unexpected guest, a woman of sixty with a strong, bent figure, and a square face lighted by gleaming eyes with fixed lines about them. The black-hued Undertaker who had constituted himself master of ceremonies met her at the door, and immediately hustled her within. “While I have not the privilege of this lady's personal acquaintance,” he announced, “I have the honor of presenting, ladies and gentlemen, the eminent and professional chaperon, Mrs. Sparkles.”