“Yes, but he doesn't care for me.” “Not specially,” admitted Manley Knight. “Yes,” Daisy said. “He thinks me too ignorant and unsophisticated--and I am. Now, there's Lotta Munn, the heiress--she's more in his line. But Ernest Swayne is devoted to Lotta. I think it will be a real love match--like the Trues.” “The Trues?” asked Warble, politely. “Yes,” and she glanced toward a very devoted looking pair sitting apart from the rest, on a small divan. “They're wonderful! Herman True is the most marvelous husband you ever saw. He never speaks to anyone but his wife. And she's just the same. She was Faith Loveman, you know. And they've been married two years and are still honeymoon lovers! Ah, what a fate!” Daisy sighed, a sweet little-girly sigh, and blushed like a slice of cold boiled ham. But this Who's Whosing was interrupted by a footman with a tray of cocktails. Daisy Snow refused, of course, as became a débutante so did Judge Drinkwater, who stood near by, frowning upon the scene, he being a Prohibitionist. A sickly looking lady next to him achieved several, and Warble asked Daisy who she might be. “Oh, that's Iva Payne--you met her, you know. She's very delicate, a semi-invalid, under the care of specialists all the time. I don't exactly know what her malady is, but it's something very interesting to the doctors. There's scarcely anything she can eat--I believe she brings her own specially prepared food to parties. “She seems to relish the cock-a-whoops all right,” Warble commented. “I understand the doctors prescribe stimulants for her--she is not at all strong. They give her artificial strength, she says.” “Yes, she seems to be strong for 'em. Don't you take any?” “Oh no! I'm a débutante. And mother says she wants to be with me when I take my first cocktail and smoke my first cigarette.” “Dear girl, Daisy, so fresh and unspoiled! Her mother is one of a thousand.” This from Manley Knight, who constituted himself Daisy's proxy in the matter of cocktails and drank all that would have been Daisy's had her mother permitted. Goldwin Leathersham seemed to be acting as proxy for some débutante also, for he seemed to feel pretty bobbish, but Warble was only slightly interested in the whole matter. She rolled her Wedgwooden eyes about, hoping the horde would be herded toward the dining-room. But no such luck. Instead they drifted in the opposite direction and, swept along with the crowd, Warble found herself in one of a serried series of gilt chairs, facing a platform as large as a theater stage. An erudite looking man who appeared on the platform received tumultous applause. “Who is he?” Warble whispered to her neighbor, who chanced to be Avery Goodman, “an impersonator?” “Lord, no; it's Wunstone, the great scientist--rants on Fourth Avenue dimensions, or something like that.”