Most masculine and imperative of all, was Benton, with his blur of blue-black hair, fine tangled threads, his melting, deep blue eyes, shadowy with fatigue, lighted with vagrant dreams or shot with brisk fires of passion. His hands were strong and he had an air of suppressed power. The fourth man was Philip Starr, a poet not long for San Francisco, seeing that the Athanæum had already placed the laurels upon his brow—he was as far from the conventional type of poet as is possible. He had a lean, eager, sharply cut face, shrewd, quick eye and sinewy, long fingers. His hair was close cropped, his mouth was tight and narrow. Electricity seemed to dart from him as from a dynamo. Just now he was teaching the company a new song—an old one, rather, for it was an ancient Anglo-Saxon drinking-song, whose uproarious refrain was well fitted to the temper of the assembly. At one end of the table sat a young woman, _petite_, elf-like as a little girl, a brown, cunning, soft-haired creature, smiling, smiling, smiling, with eyes half closed, wrinkled in quiet mirth. This was Elsie Dougal. Opposite her was a girl of twenty-seven, with a handsome, clear-cut, classic face, lighted with gray eyes, limpid and straightforward, making her seem the most ingenuous of all. Mabel’s hair curled unmanageably, springy and dark. Her face was serious and intent till her smile broke and a little self-conscious laugh escaped. Starr pounded with one fist upon the table, his thumb held stiffly upright: "Dance, Thumbakin, dance!" he sang, and the chorus was repeated. Then with the heel of his palm and his fingers outstretched, pounding merrily in time: "Oh, dance ye merrymen, every one," then with his fist as before: "For Thumbakin, he can dance alone!" and, raising his fists high over his head, coming down with a bang: "_For_ "Thumbakin he can dance alone!" They went through the song together, dancing Foreman, Middleman, and Littleman, ending in a pianissimo. Then over and over they sang that queer, ancient tune, till all knew it by heart. Benton pulled his manuscript from his pocket and read it confidentially to Elsie, who smiled and smiled. Starr recited his last poem while Dougal made humorous comments. Maxim broke out into a French student’s _chanson_, so wildly improper that it took two men to suppress him. Mabel giggled hysterically and began a long, dull story which, despite interruptions, ended so brilliantly and so unexpectedly, that every one wished he had listened. Then Dougal called out: "The cavalry charge! Ready! One finger!" They tapped in unison, not too fast, each with a forefinger, upon the table. "Two fingers!" The sound increased in volume. "Three fingers, four fingers, five!" The crescendo rose. "Two hands! One foot! BOTH FEET!" There was a hurricane of galloping fists and soles. Then, in diminuendo: "One foot! One hand! Four fingers, three, two, one! Halt!"