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 to-day.  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 awhile 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 windowseat, 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’ semicircle has to break up, and the three of us are towed to the bay window by Vivacious Vivian.

“Princess,” says she, makin’ a low duck, “three other Knights who would do homage.  Allow me first to present Mr. Reginald St. Claire Smith.  Here Reggy.  Also Mr. Theodore Braden.  And next Mr.—­Mr.—­er——­”

She’s got to me.  I expect her first guess was that I’d been dragged in by one of the other two; but as neither of ’em makes any sign she turns them black, dark-ringed lamps inquirin’ on me and asks, “Oh, I’m sure I beg pardon, but—­but you are——­”

Now who the blazes was I, anyway?  It all depended on how well posted she was, whether I should admit I was Torchy the Banished, or invent an alias on the spot.

“Why,” says I, draggin’ it out to gain time, “you see I’m a—­that is, I’m a—­a——­”

“Oh, hello!” breaks in Vee, jumpin’ up and holdin’ out both hands just in the nick of time.  “Why, of course, Cousin Eulalia!  This is a friend of mine, an old friend.”

“Really!” says Cousin Eulalia.  “And I may call him——­”

“Claude,” I puts in, winkin’ at Vee.  “Call me just Claude.”

“Perfectly lovely!” gushes Eulalia.  “An unknown knight.  ’Deed and you shall be called Claude—­Sir Claude of the Golden Crest.  Gentlemen, I present him to you.”

We looks at each other sort of sheepish, and most of us grins.  All but one, in fact.  The blond string bean over in the corner, with the buttermilk blue eyes and the white eyebrows, he don’t seem amused.  For it’s Sappy Westlake, the one I run on a siding once at a dance.  Think of keepin’ a peeve on ice all that time!