Twice she missed and set fire to her skirt, but what did this boyish, lovely creature care about a skirt? Her eyes were marvelous. They were crossed between a sea green and a pond blue but her black eyebrows were obviously alike and offered strange contrast to the loose, red, bobbed curls she wore, clubbed about her ears. In the course of training her Lord Tawdry had always attended to the style in which she wore her hair. In the company at the Hotel Biscuit dance all the men dropped their partners, even if they weren't their wives, and trooped toward Verbeena, an international galaxy of adorers comprising Scotch, Irish, Spanish, Scandinavians, Malays, Canadians, Moabites and--well, that will be about enough--but toward all of them who pleaded, some with twanging guitars, others with ukeleles and one with a harmonica for a chance to clasp her boyish beauty in the ardor of a kicky dance, Miss Mayonnaise had but one insouciant, petulant reply: "Aw, g'wan. Fade!" Young Butternut stood nearby with his heart in his eyes. He was nodding joyfully and murmuring softly for her ear alone: "'Attaboy!" "I say, chappie, what are you cooing about?" finally demanded Miss Mayonnaise. "Please, old thing, a word alone out on the balcony," Butternut abjectly amplified. "You've a jolly cheek," retorted Verbeena lighting another cigarette. "And yet?" she suddenly arose and knocked the pleasing young man for a few feet with a merry clap on the ear. "I'll take you on. I like you, Butternut. You remind me so much of your sister." She pulled out a guinea and started matching him as they passed from the ballroom and out upon the balcony under the ambient, silver light of the romantic moon which was, indeed, shining. Two minutes later and from the direction of this same window out of which they had passed--you remember, harmlessly matching guineas--sounded a wild, prolonged and subtly syncopated ladylike screech. A hush came over the crowded room. Regular ladies huddled fearsomely against shaky-kneed, cosmopolitan daredevils while craven waiters went out to see what the trouble was. Somebody tore the hotel doctor away from his absinthe drip and rushed him out too. A solemn procession returned. Frightened faces drew apart to let it pass. Frightened eyes gazed upon a white stretcher borne in the center of it. On it was the prone figure of a person whose face was also white. The figure recumbent was boyish. But it was not that of Verbeena Mayonnaise. The white face showed the delicate, feminine profile of Bertie Butternut! In the frame of the balcony window stood another boyish figure. Sure enough this was Verbeena in all her laddie-like grace and poised with a seeming boyish indifference. But it could be seen by those who knew her at all that Miss Mayonnaise was perturbed. For at one grab she had emptied the contents of her slim gold case and was moodily smoking six cigarettes at once. * * * * *