For, take it from me, Mrs. Hollister had connected! Uh-huh! Not with any last fall outfit, nor yesterday's. About day after to-morrow's, I should call it. And if there wa'n't zipp and scream to it, then I'm shortsighted in the eyes. My guess is that it's a mixture of the last word in Byzantine effects, with a Cleopatra girdle and a Martha Washington polonaise. Anyway, if there ain't much above the waist line but gauze and strips of fur, there's plenty of flare below, as far as the ankles. Lucky she'd invested in a generous fur-lined wrap to go with it, or I wouldn't have stirred a step until we'd draped her in a rug or something. I ain't sayin' much about the feather affair clamped around her head in place of a hat; only it reminds me of an Indian war bonnet that's been through a hard blow. "Well, Bayard," says she, floatin' up to us wabbly on her high heels, "you see I'm ready." "Ye-e-es," says Steele draggy. And while I pushes the Major to the front almost by main strength, J. Bayard presents him. After that, though--say, I don't know when I've seen two parties indulge in such a long and earnest look at each other as Major Ben and Mrs. Hollister did then. While the Major flushes rosy and hardly has a word to say for himself, he just naturally glues his lamps to her and don't let 'em roam. Believe me too, she was some giddy picture! Wa'n't such a bad looker, you know, in her other rig; but in this zippy regalia--well, I got to admit that she's some ripe pippin. Her big brown eyes is sparklin', she's smilin' coy as she looks the Major up and down, and the next thing we know blamed if she ain't cuddled right up to him and remarked kittenish: "You dear man! I'm going to let you take me out to the cab." Well, that was the programme from then on. It was the Major and Mrs. Hollister first, with me and J. Bayard trailin' on behind. We'd had some debate beforehand as to whether this should be a dry dinner or not, endin' by Steele announcin' he was goin' to take a chance on Martinis anyhow. Does she shy at the appetizer? Say, she was clinkin' glasses with the Major before J. Bayard has a chance to reach for his. Same way with the fizz that J. B. has put in a hurry order for. "Bored to death, ain't she?" I remarks behind my hand. And before the fillet of sole was served the Major had unlimbered his conversation works, and that pair was havin' about the chattiest time of any couple in the place, with me and J. Bayard stranded on the side lines. "Do you know, my dear Major," we hears her announce about nine-fifteen, as she toys with a three-dollar portion of roast pheasant, "I had no idea New York could be like this. Then there are the theaters, the opera. I believe I shall stay up for the rest of the season." "Good!" says the Major. "I shall stay too." Half an hour later, while he was showin' her how to burn brandy on her demitasse, I nudges Steele. "Say," I whispers, "me for a spot where I ain't formin' a crowd!"