Me to the maid, "Messenger from Mr. Westlake, and would Miss Vee care
to take a short motor spin. Waiting below."

Then more confab with Aunty, and five minutes later out comes Vee.
Finale: Me and Vee climbin' to the top of one of them Riverside Drive busses, while Aunty
dreams that she's out with Sappy Westlake, the chosen one.Some strategy to that--what?  And, sure enough, the piece opens a good deal as I'd planned; only instead of me bein' alone when I pushes the button, hanged if two young chappies that had come up in the elevator with me don't drift along to the same apartment door.  We swap sort of foolish grins, and when Hortense fin'ly shows up everyone of us does a bashful sidestep to let the others go first.  So Hortense opens on what looks like a revolvin' wedge.  But that don't trouble her at all. "Oh, yes," says she, swingin' the door wide and askin' no questions. "This way, please." Looked like we was expected; so there's no ducking and while we're drapin' our hats on the hall rack I'm busy picturin' the look on Aunty's face when she singles me out of the trio.  They was panicky thoughts, them. But a minute later the plot is still further mixed by the sudden swishy, swirly entrance of an entire stranger,--a tall, thin female with vivid pink cheeks, a chemical auburn tint to her raven tresses, and long jet danglers in her ears.  She's draped in what looks like a black silk umbrella cover with rows of fringe and a train tacked to it, and she wears a red, red rose coquettish over one ear.  As she swoops down on us from the drawin' room she cuts loose with the vivacious chatter.

"Ah, there you are, you dear, darling boys!" says she.  "And the Princess Charming is holding court today.  Ah, Reggy, you scamp!  But you did come, didn't you?  And dear Theodore too!  Brave, Sir Knights!  That's what you all shall be,--Knights come to woo the Princess!"

Honest, for a while there, as this bughouse monologue was bein' put over, I figured I've made a mistake in the floor, and had been let into a private ward.  But as soon as I gets next to the Georgia accent I suspects that it ain't any case of squirrels in the attic; but just a sample of sweet Southern gush. Next I gets a peek through the draperies at some straw-colored hair with a shell-pink ear peepin' from underneath, and I know that whatever else is wrong don't matter; for over there on the window seat, surrounded by half a dozen young gents, is somebody very particular and special.  Followin' this I does a hasty piece of scout work and draws a deep breath.  No Aunty looms on the horizon--not yet, anyway. With the arrival of the new delegates the admirin' 

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