"It's just right," said Grief.  
"It isn't quite cool enough," said Wrinkles.
 
"Well, I guess I know the proper temperature for claret."
 
"Well, I guess you don't. If it was buttermilk, now, you would know, but you can't tell anything about claret."
 
Florinda ultimately the question. "It isn't quite cool enough," she said, laying her hand on the bottle. "Put it on the window , Grief."
 
"Hum! Splutter, I thought you knew more than——"
 
"Oh, shut up!" interposed the busy Pennoyer from a remote corner. "Who is going after the potato salad? That's what I want to know. Who is going?"
 
"Wrinkles," said Grief.
 
"Grief," said Wrinkles.
 
"There," said Pennoyer, coming forward and scanning a late work with an eye of satisfaction. "There's the three glasses and the little tumbler; and then, Grief, you will have to drink out of a mug."
 
"I'll be double-dyed black if I will!" cried Grief. "I wouldn't drink claret out of a mug to save my soul from being pinched!"
 
"You duffer, you talk like a bloomin' British chump on whom the sun never sets! What do you want?"
 
"Well, there's enough without that—what's the matter with you? Three glasses and the little tumbler."
 
"Yes, but if Billie Hawker comes——"
 
"Well, let him drink out of the mug, then. He——"
 
"No, he won't," said Florinda suddenly. "I'll take the mug myself."
 
"All right, Splutter," rejoined Grief . "I'll keep the mug. But, still, I don't see why Billie Hawker——"
 
"I shall take the mug," Florinda firmly.
 
"But I don't see why——"
 
"Let her alone, Grief," said Wrinkles. "She has decided that it is heroic. You can't move her now."
 
"Well, who is going for the potato salad?" cried Pennoyer again. "That's what I want to know."
 
"Wrinkles," said Grief.
 
"Grief," said Wrinkles.
 
"Do you know," remarked Florinda, raising her head from where she had been over the spaghetti, "I don't care so much for Billie Hawker as I did once?" Her sleeves were rolled above the elbows of her wonderful arms, and she turned from the stove and a fork as if she had been at her task with this inspiration.
 
There was a short silence, and then Wrinkles said politely, "No."
 
"No," continued Florinda, "I really don't believe I do." She suddenly started. "Listen! Isn't that him coming now?"
 
The dull of a step could be heard in some distant corridor, but it died slowly to silence.
 
"I thought that might be him," she said, turning to the spaghetti again.
 
"I hope the old Indian comes," said Pennoyer, "but I don't believe he will. Seems to me he must be going to see——"
 
"Who?" asked Florinda.
 
"Well, you know, Hollanden and he usually dine together when they are both in town."
 
Florinda looked at Pennoyer. "I know, Penny. You must have thought I was clever not to understand all your blundering. But I don't care so much. Really I don't."
 
"Of course not," Pennoyer.
 
"Really I don't."
 
"Of course not."
 
"Listen!" exclaimed Grief, who was near the door. "There he comes now." Somebody approached, whistling an air from "Traviata," which rang loud and clear, and low and , as the whistler wound among the intricate hallways. This air was as much a part of Hawker as his coat. The spaghetti had arrived at a critical stage. Florinda gave it her comple............