Westguard grunted something under his casque; then, adjusting his aluminum mask: "Are you having a good time, Dicky? I suppose you are." "Oh, _I'm_ gay enough," returned the Harlequin airily--"but there's never much genuine gaiety among the overfed." And he slapped a passing gallant with his wooden sword, spun around on his toes, bent over gracefully and stood on his hands, legs twinkling above him in the air. Then, with a bound he was on his nimble feet again, and, linking his arm in the arm of the Cromwellian trooper, strolled along the ranks of fanning dowagers, glancing amiably into their masked faces. "Same old battle-line," he observed to his companion--"their jewels give them away. Same old tiaras, same old ladies--all fat, all fifty, all fanning away like the damned. Your aunt has on about a ton of emeralds. I think she does it for the purpose of banting, don't you, Karl----" The uproar drowned his voice: Westguard, colossal in his armour, gazed gloomily around at the gorgeous spectacle for which his cousin Molly Wycherly was responsible. "It's monkey-shines like this that breed anarchists," he growled. "Did you notice that rubbering crowd outside the police lines in the snow? Molly and Jim ought to see it." [Illustration: "Westguard, colossal in his armour, gazed gloomily around at the gorgeous spectacle."] "Oh, cut it out, Karl," retorted the Harlequin gaily; "there'll be rich and poor in the world as long as the bally old show runs--there'll be reserved seats and gallery seats and standing room only, and ninety-nine percent of the world cooling its shabby heels outside." "I don't care to discuss the problem with _you_," observed Westguard. After a moment he added: "I'm going to dance once or twice and get out.... I suppose you'll flit about doing the agreeable and fashionable until daylight." "I suppose so," said the Harlequin, tranquilly. "Why not? Also _you_ ought to find material here for one of your novels." "A man doesn't have to hunt for material. It's in his bedroom when he wakes; it's all around him all day long. There's no more here than there is outside in the snow; and no less.... But dancing all night isn't going to help _your_ business, Ricky." "It won't hurt any business I'm likely to do." "Isn't your Tappan-Zee Park panning out?" "Fizzling out. Nobody's bought any building sites." "Why not?" "How the deuce do I know, Karl! I don't want to talk business, here----" He ceased speaking as three or four white masked Bacchantes in fluttering raiment came dancing by to the wild music of Philemon and Baucis. Shaking their be-ribboned tambourines, flowery garlands and lynx-skins flying from their shoulders, they sped away on fleet little feet, hotly pursued by adorers. "Come on," said the Harlequin briskly; "I think one of those skylarkers ought to prove amusing! Shall I catch you one?"