Warble was almost in hysterics over the funny antics of Goldwin Leathersham down whose loose and ample collar she had herself poured a glass of water on two seidlitz powders. “Next,” she cried, clapping her hands, “we'll have an artistic game. Here it comes.” Lackeys and minions brought in pails of kalsomine, of various tints, some of pale pastel shades, others of deep rich hues. One was given to each guest, and each was provided with a beautiful new whitewash brush. “Now,” Warble explained, her blue eyes dimpling with delight, “you each make a splash on the wall--a big, hit-or-miss splash. Then we each try to evolve a lovely picture by few bold strokes.” This was great fun. Manley Knight, with a mighty splash of color that landed on a Fragonard panel, had quite a good start for a “Storm at Sea.” He worked it up with fine technique and you would have been surprised at the result. Iva Payne took a splash from several different pails thereby achieving a Cubist landscape. It was entitled “High Tide off the Three-mile Limit,” and was a startling success. Daisy Snow, timid little dear, made but a tiny daub and worked it up carefully. “That,” she said, “is a miniature of Big Bill.” All in all, it was gay sport, and even Mrs. Charity Givens took part, though she protested she was no artist and couldn't even draw a straight line. The next performance was a contest between Adam Goodsport and Avery Goodman. Bets were made on the two contestants before the betters knew what the scrap was to be. “It's a character sketch,” Warble explained. “Mr. Goodsport tries to blacken Mr. Goodman's character, while the Rector tries to whiten Mr. Goodsport's character.” Avery Goodman was then presented with a bag of flour and Adam Goodsport was handed a bag of soot. They went at it hand over fist, and in a few moments the blacking and whiting process was so complete that both were pronounced perfect transformations and all bets were off. Faces, hands and clothes were alike befloured and besooted, until Goodman was a veritable Blackamoor while Adam Goodsport looked like a Marcelline. A few eyebrows indicated a suspicion that Big Bill Petticoat's bride was a Little Mischief, but nobody said anything about it. “If I can only reform them,” Warble thought to herself, “if I can only make them like and enjoy this innocent fun instead of wearing their poor brains out over capitalled Art and Literature.” “Now,” she said, briskly, “we're going to play a game I learned in Shanghai. All take off your shoes and stockings. No one excused--come on--off with them.” Beer and a few other maids came in to assist the ladies, the men were properly valeted, and the barefooted crowd sat waiting further orders. Daisy Snow made a remark about being a maiden with reluctant feet, but nobody noticed it. Several seemed rather relieved than otherwise at the condition imposed upon them. “Now,” said Warble, but before she could go further, Adam Goodsport butted in with: