"I'll take a Bronx," he said, after the others had spoken.

The drawler took it upon himself to instruct the waiter to find Mr. Van Pycke, senior, and tell him that his son was in the lounge.

"Never mind," countermanded Bosworth, sharply. "I'll look him up directly. Beastly night, isn't it?"

Every one said it was. It dawned upon them that Bosworth was not taking his first cocktail. It was quite plain that already he had taken several. They were unwilling to believe their senses. Buzzy never got tight! He always had said it made him dreadfully ill the next day, and a man who is ill the next day—in that way—suffers tremendously during the period of upheaval in the additional loss of self-respect. Be that as it may, he appeared to have forgotten his squeamishness. Young Mr. Van Pycke—he of the sleek blond hair and dark gray eyes—was quite palpably drunk.

"This is the sixth for me in the last half hour," he remarked, but not proudly, as he took up the cocktail. A spoonful or more leaked over the top of the glass as he raised it to his lips. "Here's how."

"Six!" exclaimed the drawler. "What's got into you, Buzzy? I thought your limit was two."

Buzzy appeared to be thinking. "Two's my limit when I'm perfectly sober," he said sagely. He waited a moment. "Say, did you fellers see that thing in the paper's mor—this morning about the party?"

"What party?" demanded several.

He looked aggrieved. "Why, there was only one. I haven't heard of another. The one at Mrs. Thistlethorpe's. By Jove, that's a—a hard name to pronounce. Didn't you see in the papers that they played a new game between the Bridge and the pantry? Jus' before supper Mrs. This—Thissus Miss—the same one I said before—introduced her new trained dog. It was Willy Buttsford. Willy—the silly ass—came into the room on all fours. She was leadin' him by a leash. Willy's got such a deuced thin neck that her poodle's diamond-studded collar fits'm all right. Then she had him beg for candy, roll over an' play dead, jump over her leg, and—say, he almost broke his nose doin' that! Awful mess he made of himself, slippin' on the rug. He closed the show by tellin' the age of every woman present, barkin' the numbers. I thought I'd die of fatigue when he gave Mrs. Thisum—ahem!—when he gave her age. He thought it would be smart to run it up into the hundreds. The dam' fool barked for three quarters of an hour without stoppin'! I never was so disgusted in my life. Thass—that's 

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