During this time Art, Literature, and Music were industriously engaged in the laudable enterprise of spending the unearned increment, in the course of which redistribution of wealth, they found the necessary encouragement from the more expensive sex. A round of gaiety set in such as the Arcadians had never known. Visits to restaurants and theaters became mere details of a daily routine. They gave a dance in the studio and plunged into the revelry of costume balls, then at its height; while, under the guidance of Belle Shaler, they made several excursions into the bohemia of Washington Square and Greenwich Village. In the inevitable pairing-off process, it transpired that, however they started forth, they returned home with Myrtle Popper snuggling close to O’Leary’s protecting bulk (she seemed particularly sensitive to the cold), Tootles tagging close to Pansy’s provoking shoulder, and Flick and Belle Shaler, who had quarreled from the start, walking six feet apart and stabbing each other with final deadly glances. Millie Brewster came to the parties in the studio, but seldom ventured forth on the marauding expeditions--not that she did not envy these rollicking sallies in wig and fancy dress, only she could not shake off the timidity and shyness which had grown about her in her months of isolation. “Boys,” said King O’Leary, one morning, when from his couch he had watched Tootles’ mental control of Matter carrying him by successive jerks to the sink--“boys, I have a bit of news to break to you. I have been counting up, and there is just one more jamboree in sight.” Flick awoke by one of those subconscious mental perceptions that the Society for Psychical Research is at present investigating. “Broke?” “King, tell us the worst.” “Sixty-two dollars and some miserable change,” said O’Leary cheerfully, “is all that keeps us among the high rollers.” A fearful suspicion flashed across Tootles’ ducal countenance as it dawned upon him that, though it was the first week of the month, no summons to pay the rent had yet appeared. “King, you paid the rent!” O’Leary did not deny it. “How much?” said Flick faintly. “A year.” Tootles took this announcement very hard. “It’s squandering money, that’s what it is,” he said bitterly. “Why, damn it, man,” said Flick, equally outraged, “anything can happen--another uncle might die!” “Well, it’s done,” said King O’Leary, without sign of penitence. “I’m getting tired of dissipation, anyhow. At least we have a roof over our heads.” “We shall starve to death--like Croton water-bugs caught in a diamond casket,” said Flick, who had a taste for poetical flights. “But, even then,” said Tootles, “even with that and the parties and the gorgeous presents, there ought to be three or four hundred left.” At this moment he caught sight of a guilty look on King O’Leary’s face. “Literature, I do believe he’s been and done some low-down, sneaking good action. What is it--paying rent for the whole floor?”