There was a short wait during which they were subjected without their knowledge to a careful scrutiny by the head-waiter.
Then the champagne arrived, and at the sight of it Mr. In and Mr. Out became jubilant.
"Imagine their objecting to us having champagne for breakfast --jus' imagine."
They both concentrated upon the vision of such an awesome possibility, but the feat was too much for them.
It was impossible for their joint imaginations to conjure up a world where any one might object to any one else having champagne for breakfast.
The waiter drew the cork with an enormous pop --and their glasses immediately foamed with pale yellow froth.
"Here's health, Mr. In."
"Here's same to you, Mr. Out."
The waiter withdrew; the minutes passed; the champagne became low in the bottle.
"It's --it's mortifying," said Dean suddenly.
"Wha's mortifying?"
"The idea their objecting us having champagne breakfast."
"Mortifying?"
Peter considered. " Yes, tha's word --mortifying."
Again they collapsed into laughter, howled, swayed, rocked back and forth in their chairs, repeating the word "mortifying" over and over to each other --each repetition seeming to make it only more brilliantly absurd.
After a few more gorgeous minutes they decided on another quart.
Their anxious waiter consulted his immediate superior, and this discreet person gave implicit instructions that no more champagne should be served.
Their check was brought.
Five minutes later, arm in arm, they left the Commodore and made their way through a curious, staring crowd along Forty-second Street, and up Vanderbilt Avenue to the Biltmore.
There, with sudden cunning, they rose to the occasion and traversed the lobby, walking fast and standing unnaturally erect.
Once in the dining-room they repeated their performance.
They were torn between intermittent convulsive laughter and sudden spasmodic discussions of politics, college, and the sunny state of their dispositions.
Their watches told them that it was now nine o'clock, and a dim idea was born in them that they were on a memorable party, something that they would remember always.
They lingered over the second bottle.
Either of them had only to mention the word "mortifying" to send them both into riotous gasps.
The dining-room was whirring and shifting now; a curious lightness permeated and rarefied the heavy air.
They paid their check and walked out into the lobby.
It was at this moment that the exterior doors revolved for the thousandth time that morning, and admitted into the lobby a very pale young beauty with dark circles under her eyes, attired in a much-rumpled evening dress.
She was accompanied by a plain stout man, obviously not an appropriate escort.
At the top of the stairs this couple encountered Mr. In and Mr. Out.
"Edith," began Mr. In, stepping toward her hilariously and making a sweeping bow, " darling, good morning."
The stout man glanced questioningly at Edith, as if merely asking her permission to throw this man summarily out of the way.
"'Scuse familiarity," added Peter, as an afterthought.
"Edith, good-morning."
He seized Dean's elbow and impelled him into the foreground.
"Meet Mr. In, Edith, my bes' frien'.
Inseparable. Mr. In and Mr. Out."
Mr. Out advanced and bowed; in fact, he advanced so far and bowed so low that he tipped slightly forward and only kept his balance by placing a hand lightly on Edith's shoulder.
"I'm Mr. Out, Edith," he mumbled pleasantly, " S'misterin Mister out."
"'Smisterinanout," said Peter proudly.
But Edith stared straight by them, her eyes fixed on some infinite speck in the gallery above her.
She nodded slightly to the stout man, who advanced bulllike and with a sturdy brisk gesture pushed Mr. In and Mr. Out to either side.
Through this alley he and Edith walked.
But ten paces farther on Edith stopped again --stopped and pointed to a short, dark soldier who was eying the crowd in general, and the tableau of Mr. In and Mr. Out in particular, with a sort of puzzled, spell-bound awe.
"There," cried Edith.
"See there!"
Her voice rose, became somewhat shrill.
Her pointing finger shook slightly.
"There's the soldier who broke my brother's leg."
There were a dozen exclamations; a man in a cutaway coat left his place near the desk and advanced alertly; the stout person made a sort of lightning-like spring toward the short, dark soldier, and then the lobby closed around the little group and blotted them from the sight of Mr. In and Mr. Out.