“The gang’s here,” he said. “Let’s make for the scene of the slaughter.”
There were twelve of them, young men all, not one of whom but carried a name which stood for wealth achieved or personal success. But it was a dozen which could be duplicated more than once in highflying Detroit. They moved in holiday spirit to the private dining-room to which La Mothe directed them, and found their places around a long, flower-laden table. The flowers heaped upon that linen had taken from La Mothe’s pocketbook a sum which would have kept a large family in comfort for a month.
A skilfully set table is a beautiful sight. There is something about the combination of white linen, flowers, silver, and glass which touches a chord in the masculine heart.... Perhaps this bears out the boyish belief that the Chinese place the seat of the emotions in the stomach. Potter’s eye took note of the number and variety of the glasses. Michigan would be afflicted by drought in May, but the drought had not arrived; here was promised a deluge.
The party seated themselves, and as each man lifted his napkin he found under it a cigarette-case of gold, engraved with his monogram.... Such cases, Potter knew, could not be had for a ten-dollar bill; indeed, he doubted if ten such bills would be sufficient. This night La Mothe was not flying near the ground. Financial worries did not seem to hover in his neighborhood. Those cigarette-cases, Potter said to himself, would have maintained a soldier in the field for twelve months.
With the cocktail started the entertainment of which Fred had boasted. A miniature stage with curtain and scenery had been erected at one end of the room, and upon it a performance went forward throughout the dinner. It was there. One might watch it if he chose, or might disregard it for conversation with his neighbor. It was an incident, but not an inexpensive incident. Fred’s idea of a proper cabaret seemed to consist in such sights as the safety of the performers would not permit in a cold room. There was nothing gross. Fred was possessed of too much of the esthetic for that; all was artistically done, skilfully done by performers of no mean grade.... The more perfect the art the less necessary the apparel—that seemed to be the basic rule.
Eldredge sat next Potter; across from him and lower down the table sat O’Mera and Cantor, side by side. Potter had not expected to see Cantor there.... Potter glanced about. There was not a young man present who could not have afforded to give this entertainment or who was amazed at the luxury of it.... He did not glance at Cantor. The sight of the man was hateful to him; the surge of hatred which welled up from his heart held him tense, forgetful of his surroundings, and he sat staring moodily at the table before him. La Mothe perceived his mood and called, jovially:
“Come out of it, Potter. The mourners aren’t due yet. Wait till we have a little poker.”
Potter smiled back, forced himself to cast off the mood, compelled his mind away from Cantor. It was a thing not easy to accomplish. Every time he headed his thoughts away from the man they dodged around and approached from a new angle. He set his teeth and plunged into conversation with Eldredge. It was not an intelligent conversation, and more than once, when Potter gave vague replies or forgot to reply at all, Jack wondered what had gotten into his friend.... He was thinking now of Hildegarde von Essen—thinking bitter, unsavory thoughts. He refused even the lightest of wines, not because he was afraid of the exaltation, but because he knew himself, knew his rash impulsiveness, knew the difficulty he had, sober, to hold himself in hand. Inflamed by stimulant, he could not answer for his conduct, and it would be an ill thing to interrupt La Mothe’s party by flying at Cantor’s throat.
The others were not so cautious. Glasses were filled and emptied. Waiters seemed to fear some calamity if a man were left with an empty glass before him. The party, like all masculine affairs, had been sedate, a trifle strained at the beginning. It was easier now. It was no drunken revel, no orgy, but tongues were set free, wits were kindled, the whole tone was lifted a key, and the signature was never in flats—always sharps.
The time had been when such a party would have revolved around Potter Waite, when he would have given it its tempo—and the others would have found it not easy to follow his time. His presence was always desired, yet it was welcomed with a certain apprehension, for limits known to others did not bound him. Even now the young men in his immediate neighborhood felt a premonition that something reckless would happen. They were doomed to disappointment. The gaiety went on without him, in spite of him. He was not enjoying himself; indeed, he felt out of place and was rather piqued with himself that he should feel out of place. The truth was that in one year he had grown beyond such things; had graduated from that school, and its curriculum had nothing to offer him. Frankly, he was bored when he tried to enter into the spirit of the evening.