Mike leaned forward to tie his white cravat. He was slight, and white
and black, and he thought of Lily, of the exquisite pleasure of
seeing her and leading her away. And he was pleased and surprised to
find that his thoughts of her were pure.

The principal contributors to the _Pilgrim_ had been invited, and a
selection had been made from the fast and fashionable gang--those who
could be trusted neither to become drunk or disorderly. It had been
decided, but not without misgivings, to ask Muchross and Snowdown.

The doors were open, servants could be seen passing with glasses and
bottles. Frank, who had finished dressing, called from the
drawing-room and begged Mike to hasten; for the housemaid was waiting
to arrange his room, for it had been decided that this room should
serve as a lounge where dancers might sit between the waltzes.

"She can come in now," he shouted. He folded the curtains of his
strange bed; he lighted a silver lamp, re-arranged his palms, and
smiled, thinking of the astonished questions when he invited young
ladies to be seated among the numerous cushions. And Mike determined
he would say that he considered his bed-room far too sacred to admit
of any of the base wants of life being performed there.

It was well-dressed Bohemia, with many markings and varied with
contrasting shades. The air was as sugar about the doorway with the
scent of gardenias; young lords shrank from the weather-stained cloth
of doubtful journalists, and a lady in long puce Cashmere provoked a
smile. Frank received his guests with laughter and epigram.