“Goin’ to be some contract, Whity, believe me!” says I.  “Look how she’s taggin’ him around!”

And, say, Cousin Inez sure had the scoopnet out for him!  Every move he makes she’s right on his heels, gigglin’ and simperin’ at all his sappy speeches and hangin’ onto his arm part of the time.  Folks was nudgin’ each other and pointin’ her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up the sort of reports that had set Old Hickory’s teeth on edge.

T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin’ the time of his life.  He exhibits some clay models, either dancin’ girls or a squad of mounted cops, I couldn’t make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded to read two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic.  Cousin Inez leads the applause.  Then, strikin’ a pose, he claps his hands, the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chef luggin’ a tray with a whackin’ big casserole on it.

“Voila!” sings out Virgie.  “The bouillabaisse!”

Marie gets busy passin’ around bowls and spoons, and the programme seems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin’ out of a long-handled silver ladle.  It smells mighty good; so I pushes in with my bowl.  What do you guess I drew?  A portion of the tastiest fish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams in it.  M-m-m-m!

“He may be a punk poet,” says I to Whity; “but he’s a good provider.”

“Huh!” growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hit Virgie’s makin’.

Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of been crowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity.

“Isn’t this just too unique for words?” she gushes.  “And is not dear Virgil perfectly charming tonight?”

“Oh, he’s a bear at this sort of thing, all right,” says Whity, “this and making cheese.”

“Cheese!” echoes Cousin Inez.

“Sure!” says Whity.  “Hasn’t he told you about his cheese factories?  Ask him.”

“But—­but I understood that—­that he was a poet,” says she, “a sculptor poet.”

“Bah!” says Whity.  “He couldn’t make his salt at either.  All just a pose!”

“Why, I can hardly believe it,” says Cousin Inez.  “I don’t believe it, either.”

“Then read his poetry and look at his so called groups,” goes on Whity.

“But he’s such a talented, interesting man,” insists Inez.

“With such an interesting family too,” says Whity, winkin’.

“Family!” gasps Cousin Inez.

“Wife and six children,” says Whity, lyin’ easy.

“Oh—­oh!” squeals Inez in that shrill, raspy voice of hers.

“They say he beats his wife, though,” adds Whity.

“Oh!—­oh!” squeals Inez, again, higher and shriller than ever.  I expect she’d been more or less keyed up before; but this adds the finishin’ touch.  And she lets ’em out reckless.