“Gosh, I’d be proud to,” Mr. Simpson mumbled feelingly. “Would she, d’you reckon?” He gazed at Hattie humbly.

“I’ll ask her,” Jim whispered. He stepped forward and touched Hattie on the shoulder. “Mr. Simpson wonders if you would care to walk about with him and see the sights,” he told her. “I... I have an engagement that I had forgotten all about.”

“Why...” Cousin Hattie stood up nervously. “I can’t see there’d be any harm since he’s an old friend of yours,” she said hesitantly. “But he must take these babies home and put them to bed at once! Why, the very idea!” She gazed at Mr. Simpson severely.

“Yes’m, yes’m. I reckon I oughtta,” he faltered. “I guess we... looks like we cain’t go ’bout together then...” his voice trailed off indecisively.

“Wait a minute.” Jim stepped valiantly into the breach. His plan was too good to be ruined in any such manner. “Suppose I take the kiddies home and put them to bed?” he offered desperately. “I’ll have time to do that before my engagement.”

“Why... I... I dunno,” Mr. Simpson said helplessly.

“That’s awfully sweet of you,” Hattie told him languishingly. The madness of Mardi Gras had crept into her veins. The instinct of the hunter who sights his prey after years of careful stalking was aroused in her flabby breast. Her drab eyes saw Mr. Simpson as a colorful and romantic figure.

“You can trust Mr. Marston,” she beamed at her newly found escort. “I’m sure he’ll put them right to bed.”

“Of course,” Jim interposed hastily. “I’ll call a cab and have them tucked in their beds in a jiffy. Just give me the address, and you two run along and have a glorious time. The kids will come with me all safe... won’t you?” He winked broadly at Boots and Buddie.

It was Boots who assumed command at this crucial moment. Perhaps she understood the situation better than any of the rest.

“Sure. O’ course,” she responded readily. “Buddie an’ me’ll be good as good can be, daddy. You go on with th’ purty lady. Mebbe... mebbe she’s the one.” The last words were uttered in a hoarse whisper.

“But I haven’t any costume,” Hattie simpered. “I wouldn’t feel right with you dyked out so grand.”

“I’ll fix that too,” Jim said wearily. He set his jaw. Damn it! He’d see this thing through if he had to buy a costume and cram her into it.

“Here’s a place open right next door,” he said eagerly. “They’ve got beautiful costumes that you can buy or rent. Come on.” He seized Hattie’s arm and dragged her to the door of the little shop in spite of her protestations.

“You wait out here,” he flung over his shoulder to Mr. Simpson. Then, to Hattie: “That’s all right. I’ll take care of everything. Think how tickled Robert will be to come back and find you enjoying yourself. He gave me some money to entertain you with... and I’ll pay for the costume out of it.”

They were inside the shop and a young girl came forward languidly. “This lady wants a costume and she wants to change in here,” he told the girl quickly. His pocket disgorged a twenty dollar bill which he forced into Hattie’s hand.

“Pick out anything you want,” he said urgently. “I’ll take the children and put them to bed.”

“But... but what about Robert?” Hattie faltered dazedly. “What’ll he think when he comes back and I’m not there?”

“I’ll fix that too,” Jim said doggedly. “You and Mr. Simpson go to the Dancing Dervish restaurant just up the street. I’ll show him where it is. I’ll leave a note for Robert at the hotel, telling him to meet you there.”

“Well, now... this seems terrible sudden,” Hattie protested.

But Jim was backing out the door and the salesgirl was plucking at her sleeve impatiently. Hattie looked frightened as she turned to gaze at the racks of costumes. She was frightened to feel the spirit of reckless gladness which pervaded her withered frame. A spot of color glowed high up in each cheek as she studied the raiment displayed.

Jim paused just long enough to point out the Dancing Dervish restaurant to Mr. Simpson, and to get from him the address of the house to which he was to take the children. Then he beckoned to a cruising cab, and heaved a deep sigh of relief as he bundled them inside and leaped in after them.

He settled back against the cushion contentedly, feeling as weary as though he had just finished a stint of stevedoring. A chuckle escaped his lips as he wondered what sort of costume Hattie would select, and he saw a mental picture of her sallying forth proudly on Mr. Simpson’s arm to the riotous tumult of the Dancing Dervish to learn the secret of Mardi Gras.

That had called for fast thinking, he congratulated himself, and for direct action. He wondered what Robert would say... but he refused to worry about Robert.

After all, why shouldn’t Hattie and Mr. Simpson see Mardi Gras together? If he could find a bow and arrow, he reflected, he might pose for a picture of Cupid.

Chapter Twelve

Individuals such as Sonia Jenson have made their appearance at irregular intervals throughout the written history of our world. From every land and from the most divergent environments.

They are born, flame gloriously for a more or less brief period, and vanish... leaving behind them no trace other than an increased sense of futility in the hearts of those whose privilege it has been to contact them intimately during their spectacular careers.

If they leave progeny behind them (and this seems rather the exception than the rule) they are invariably a dull and uninspired brood, failing utterly to follow the laws of heredity; seemingly more in accord with the compensatory mandate which decrees each positive shall breed a negative.

Perhaps it is best so. It shatters the imagination to visualize a world inhabited by Sonias. Yet, they serve a certain purpose. Providence is wise in thus holding before us at intervals a mirror in which we may see reflected the image of our dream-selves.

The Sonias are that. An unrestrained ego which knows no restrictions, jeers at all rules imposed by civilized society, scorns inhibitions and all such advanced psychological theories; in short, an atavistic reversion to the untrammeled savagery of the primitive who recognized no law save the urge of fierce instinct.

Masculine or feminine, it matters not. Soldier of fortune, or voluptuous hussy. Picaresque villain, or bejeweled demivirgin. In various guises they have marched across the pages of our history, causing, each, a ripple of varying intensity... a ripple which is immediately absorbed, blotted up, by the larger progression of humanity.

Sonia’s parentage has no real significance, but is of interest to show from what curious beginnings this type may emerge. Her father was Oscar Jenson, an eager Swedish youth, with cold blue eyes and a thatch of blond hair. Broad-shouldered and mentally laggard. Her mother was Sonia Vlastovich. Dark, haggard, undernourished; with sharp teeth, glittering eyes, and a bitter smile.

They met at Ellis Island, and Sonia Jenson was conceived there amid the bustle and odor of disembarkation. Her parents were married a few days later, and Oscar was gored to death by a Jersey bull on his uncle’s farm in Minnesota two weeks before Sonia was born.

His wife did not fit into the jig saw of the Jenson menage, and she took to the streets with her daughter when Sonia was two months old.

Twenty years have elapsed since the younger Sonia lay upon a dirty bundle of clothes in the corner of an ill-smelling room in St. Paul and gurgled happily while her mother was otherwise occupied in the same room.

That sort of thing continued for fourteen haphazard years. Sonia secured a fragmentary education at various public schools during those fourteen years, and absorbed a great deal of valuable information that is not yet a part of the curriculum of our enlightened public school system.

Then Sonia’s mother died — died so to speak — with her boots on. The man in the case was wealthy — a purely fortuitous circumstance — and the daughter proceeded to put to good account a portion of the knowledge she had imbibed while knocking about the country in the wake of her free-lancing mother.

In other words... she shook the gentleman down for a handsome sum. Sufficient to provide her mother with an ornate casket and decent burial... with enough left to launch Sonia upon her predatory career which she followed with great success during the six years intervening between her mother’s death and our meeting with her in New Orleans.

At twenty, Sonia was extravagantly beautiful. A wistfully soulful expression was her most important business asset. Her technique had been perfected to the point where she had merely to select her prey. The slumbrous cry of passion in the depths of her eyes, and the blustering lust of men did the rest.

She had come to New Orleans two years previously. Hunting was good in New Orleans, and the picturesque background pleased her artistic sense. So she remained. She had found that a certain reputation was an asset. Men regarded her as dangerous, and were thereby attracted... and invariably scorched by the flame of her passion.

Perhaps it was fate which sent Sonia to the Dancing Dervish at midnight of Mardi Gras eve. Possibly it was pure coincidence. No matter how the threads of destinies become entangled. There is no escaping the Master Weaver who draws the variegated fibers into grotesque patterns.

Sonia was bored. Emphatically and wholly. She was alone and it was the eve of Mardi Gras. She did not care to be alone. Remnants of distorted memories were apt to slink upon her when she was alone. She despised herself for morbid brooding.