"Well," said I, "you may see me—but don't keep your tea waiting."
As I shot uptown in my car I had almost the feeling of a coming adventure. Hastings was a good sort! I respected him for his bluntness of speech. At the cigar counter in the club I replenished my case.
Then I went into the reception room, where I found a bunch of acquaintances sitting round the window. They hailed me boisterously. What would I have to drink? I ordered a "Hannah Elias" and sank into a chair. One of them was telling about the newest scandal in the divorce line: The president of one of our largest trust companies had been discovered to have been leading a double life—running an apartment on the West Side for a haggard and passée showgirl.
"You just tell me—I'd like to know—why a fellow like that makes such a damned fool of himself! Salary of fifty thousand dollars a year! Big house; high-class wife and family; yacht—everything anybody wants. Not a drinking man either. It defeats me!" he said.
None of the group seemed able to suggest an answer. I had just tossed off my "Hannah Elias."
"I think I know," I hazarded meditatively. They turned with one accord and stared at me. "There was nothing else for him to do," I continued, "except to blow his brains out."
The raconteur grunted.
"I don't just know the meaning of that!" he remarked. "I thought he was a friend of yours!"
"Oh, I like him well enough," I answered, getting up. "Thanks for the drink. I've got to be getting home. My wife is giving a little luncheon to thirty valuable members of society."
I was delayed on Fifth Avenue and when the butler opened the front door the luncheon party was already seated at the table. A confused din emanated from behind the portières of the dining room, punctuated by shouts of female laughter. The idea of going in and overloading my stomach for an hour, while strenuously attempting to produce light conversation, sickened me. I shook my head.