possesses few, and discretion seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.
Presently Rowden called out, “I smell flowers. They feast within!”
“You ought to know Selby better than that,” growled Clifford behind the door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.
“We know Selby,” said Elliott with emphasis.
“Yes,” said Rowden, “he gives receptions with floral decorations and invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs.”
“Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel,” suggested Rowden; then, with sudden misgiving, “Is Odette there?”
“See here,” demanded Elliott, “is Colette there?”
Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, “Are you there, Colette, while I’m kicking my heels on these tiles?”
“Clifford is capable of anything,” said Rowden; “his nature is soured since Rue Barrée sat on him.”
Elliott raised his voice; “I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carried into Rue Barrée’s house at noon.”
“Posies and roses,” specified Rowden.
“Probably for her,” added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.
Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed a tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placed them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detached a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole and picking up hat and stick, smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled.
