Mrs. Cleaver, leaving the greatest persons there, came swimming to meet them. Figuratively they rubbed their eyes at the sight of her. She was one who went in frankly for hothouse effects. Her hair was the color of cherrywood stain, her cheeks tinted to match. Her dress was one of those outlandish creations one occasionally sees in the shop-windows, just for an advertisement, one supposes. "A beaded bib and a torn piano cover!" Jack described it to himself. Jack naturally had to content himself with the briefest of nods from their hostess. Her heavy ammunition was reserved for Bobo. "How good of you to come! I hardly dared hope--on such short notice! I hope I am the first to present you to the great world. Everybody is here to-night. But I'm not going to introduce you to a soul until I've had you to myself for awhile!" etc., etc. Pausing only long enough to unload Jack on a neglected female sitting in the corner, she carried Bobo off. She was still gushing like the great geyser, and Bobo had nothing to do but fiddle in his waistcoat pockets, and incline a languid, attentive head, a part he played to perfection. Jack had no anxiety on his account. Whatever breaks he made, they would simply call him an "original." Was he not a hundred times a millionaire? Jack discovered that his companion like many a neglected female was not without spice. "A queer gang, isn't it?" was her opening remark. "I don't know," said Jack, "haven't had a chance to give 'em the once over yet." "You don't look as if you belonged," she said with a sharp look. "You look almost human." "Oh, you're too discerning. How did you get here yourself?" "I'm not human. A girl of my attractions can't afford it. I'm Sonia Kharkov." "I wouldn't have thought it of you." "Everything's Russian nowadays. I write poems about surgical operations. My last was entitled 'Appendectomy.'" "How thrilling! Sorry I never read any." "Oh, I don't publish. I only talk about them. It gets me many a good meal." "Well, you're a good sport," said Jack. More than an hour passed before Jack caught sight of Bobo again. In the meantime he was parted from the poetess, and the deafening clamor began to weary him. "There's enough hot air let out here to fill one of the Consolidated gas-tanks," he had said to the poetess. "Yes, but it's not illuminating gas," she had retorted. He reflected that he would most likely run across Bobo in the vicinity of the refreshments, and conducting an investigation, he discovered an excellent buffet supper set forth in one of the rooms below. Sure enough, Bobo presently drifted in here. "Where have you been?" asked Jack. "Oh, Mrs. Cleaver took me up to the library where she receives a few of the principal guests," he drawled. "My word!" said Jack, fixing him with an imaginary monocle.