the runway, restrained enthusiastic revellers. Passions rose. The sight of so many delectable creatures clad in aphrodisiac silks was a powerful stimulant. Restraint fled. Like dancers at a masked ball, Ernie Emerson's guests were being titillated by the fascination of an atmosphere in which they might safely indulge their craving for forbidden fruit. Here was no cerebral sex game. Here was fleeting reality. Here life was almost too good to be true. The wanton sport, played privately, secretly, was here sport no longer. Good food stroked the palate; wine warmed the heart and beauty maddened the senses. Desires which had been covertly exposed, obliquely displayed, paraded here unashamed. Eyes moved eagerly now. Falsetto voices piped higher and higher; hands were arched in an unfelt caress as the manners of the hated female were mimicked, then exaggerated.
As the fashion display continued, the tense excitement grew.
"That fat Englishman over there," said Ray Leech, as Ken and he awaited their turns, "is a baronet, married, two children, an ancestral castle and a yen for small boys. Isn't he disgustingly fat?"
The object of Leech's remarks powdered his chest, moved the line of his décolleté up, then down; he fingered the marcel of his auburn wig.
"He can't go back to England," Leech added.
"Poor thing—" Ken said.
"He waited too long. It burst one day in a frightful orgy. Some one complained. He ran away and hid himself over here. He works as an interior decorator."
Some one called, "Cara."
"My turn," Ken said.
"Good luck," cried Ray Leech.
