evenin' of intellect'al enjoyment. Me and Sammy Holt 'a goin' round to
Miner's Eight' Avenoo and bust up the show. You can trail if you
wanta, but don't blame me if some big, coarse, two-fisted guy hears me
call you Perceval and picks on you."

He bent forward over the bowl, and the cubicle echoed with sounds of
splashing broken by gasps, splutters, and gurgles, until he
straightened up, groped blindly for two yards or so of dark grey
roller-towel ornamenting the adjacent wall, buried his face in its
hospitable obscurity, and presently emerged to daylight with a
countenance bright and shining above his chin, below his eyebrows, and
in front of his ears.

"How's that?" he demanded explosively. "Come off all right--didn't
it?"

P. Sybarite inclined his head to one side and regarded the outcome of
a reform administration.

"You look almost naked around the nose," he remarked at length. "But
you'll do. Don't worry.... When I asked if you'd like to go to the
theatre to-night, I meant it--and I meant a regular show, at a
Broadway house."

"Quit your kiddin'," countered Mr. Bross indulgently. "Come along: I
got an engagement to walk home and save a nickel, and so've you."

"Wait a minute," insisted P. Sybarite, without moving. "I'm in earnest
about this. I offer you a seat in a stage-box at the Knickerbocker
Theatre to-night, to see Otis Skinner in 'Kismet.'"