There was a vague sort of commotion among the banqueters and Baahaabaa rose with amazing steadiness and made another speech, short this time, but aimed point-blank at us, after which, through the center of a sort of kick-off formation I saw approaching four of the most exquisite women in the world. When ten feet away they fell on all fours and, using the Australian crawl-stroke, crept slowly toward us, exhaling sounds of passionate endearment mingled with the heart-stopping fragrance of _alova_. Beyond the glimmering lights, an unseen choir burst into the "a-a-a" of the national love-song. It was a critical not to say embarrassing moment. These lovely ladies were very evidently presents, banquet-favors so to speak, which we were expected to take home with us. To refuse them meant certain offense, perhaps death. Triplett was plainly non-plussed. Swank and Whinney were too far gone to be of any assistance. Summoning all my reserve strength I rose and faced the whirling assembly. "Gentlemen," I said solemnly, "one final toast, to the President of the United States,"--at the same time draining a huge shell of _hoopa_. My companions followed suit and we fell simultaneously. For the next twenty-four hours we were safe. After that, who knew? CHAPTER V A frank statement. We vote on the question of matrimony. A triple wedding. An epithalmic verse. We remember the "Kawa." An interview with William Henry Thomas. Triplett's strategy. Safe within the atoll. In most volumes on the South Seas the chapter which I am about to write would be omitted. I mean to say that we have reached a point in my narrative in which the status of our relations with the Filbertine women, as such, must either be discussed frankly and openly, or treated in the usual tongue-in-cheek fashion which seems to be the proper thing with English and American writers. I have looked them all over carefully (the writers, I mean), and find them divided into two categories, those who take their wives along as a guarantee of virtue, or those who are by nature Galahads, Parsifals and St. Anthonys. This latter group is to me particularly trying. They revel in descriptions of desirous damsels with burning eyes who crave companionship, but when an artfully devised encounter throws one of these passionate persons across the path of the man behind the pen, does he falter or swerve or make a misstep? Never. Right there is where the blood of the Galahads tells. Supremely he rises above temptation! Gracefully he sidesteps! Innocently he falls asleep! I don't believe a word of it. I think it's just a case of literary men sticking together.