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a, had disappeared. A Relief Fund for those afflicted had at once been started, and as if this were not enough, the doors of the Villa Alba were about to be thrown open for "An Evening of Song and Gala," in the causes of charity.

"Prancing Nigger, dis an event to take exvantage ob; dis not a lil t'ing love to be sneezed at at all," Mrs. Mouth eagerly said upon hearing the news, and she had gone about ever since, reciting the names of the list of Patronesses, including that of the Cunan Archbishop.

It was the auspicious evening.

In their commodious, jointly-shared bedroom, the Miss Lips, the fair Lips, the smiling Lips were maiding one another in what they both considered to be the "Parisian way"; a way, it appeared, that involved much nudging, arch laughter, and, even, some prodding.

"In love? Up to my ankles! Oh, yes." Edna blithely chuckled.

"Up to your topnot!" her sister returned, making as if to pull it.

But with the butt end of the curling-tongs, Edna waved her away.

Since her visit to the Villa Alba "me, an' Misteh Ruiz" was all her talk, and to be his reigning mistress the summit of her dreams.

"Come on man wid dose tongs; 'cos I want 'em myself," Miami murmured, pinning a knot of the sweet Night Jasmyn deftly above her ear.

Its aroma evoked Bamboo.

Oh, why had he not joined her? Why did he delay? Had he forgotten their delight among the trees, the giant silk-cotton-trees, with the hammer-tree-frogs chanting in the dark: Rig-a-jig-jig, rig-a-jig-jig?

"Which you like de best man, dis lil necklash or de odder?" Edna asked, essaying a strand of orchid tinted beads about her throat.


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