"Yes, you can."

"I am too close to the wall. I--"

"Talk to Scott Innis. Take him away from Rosamund Fane; that will tide
you over. Or feed those fool fish; like this! Look how they rush and
flap and spatter! That's amusing, isn't it--for people with the
intellects of canaries. . . . Will you please try to say something? Mrs.
T. West is exhibiting the restless symptoms of a hen turkey at sundown
and we'll all go to roost in another minute. . . . Don't shiver that
way!"

"I c-can't control it; I will in a moment. . . . Give me a chance; talk
to me, Phil."

"Certainly. The season has been unusually gay and the opera most
stupidly brilliant; stocks continue to fluctuate; another old woman
was tossed and gored by a mad motor this morning. . . . More time,
Alixe? . . . With pleasure; Mrs. Vendenning has bought a third-rate
castle in Wales; a man was found dead with a copy of the _Tribune_ in
his pocket--the verdict being in accordance with fact; the Panama
Canal--"

But it was over at last; a flurry of sweeping skirts; ranks of black and
white in escort to the passage of the fluttering silken procession.

"Good-bye," she said; "I am not staying for the dance."

"Good-bye," he said pleasantly; "I wish you better fortune for the