Frothingham had first met Blickenstern in the Riviera, where he was living on the last lees of tolerance. He would have cut him when he ran across him in New York had he not found him in high favour with the women who dominated fashionable society. They admitted Blickenstern as they admitted almost any of the few available men with no occupation but idleness. They needed escorts, attendants, fetch-and-carry men; Blickenstern was idle and willing, was big and always well-dressed, was useful to do the hard work of arranging an entertainment once it had been planned. And his noisy convulsions flattered those unaccustomed to having their jokes appreciated.
Frothingham’s cold stare did not disturb Blickenstern, born insensible to mental temperatures. He posed for a moment to give Frothingham a chance to admire his fashionable array of new light grey frock suit, white spats, orchid in buttonhole, and dark red tie; then he dropped upon the lounge with the good-natured, slightly condescending greeting he gave men when he had money in his pockets. He explained that he had come the night before in a private car with a party of distinguished New Yorkers who had to testify before a Senate committee. “And, do you know,” said he—his English was idiomatic American and almost without accent, “the first person I ran into was that Italian scalawag, Rontivogli.”
Frothingham’s eyeglass glistened; otherwise he did not change expression. “D’you know ’im?” he asked languidly. “What’ll you drink?”
“Brandy and soda,” replied Blickenstern. “Know ’im? Rather! I’m responsible for him in this country. He landed without a friend and the people he had letters to shut the door in his face—they don’t fancy Italians in New York. I introduced him round and got him in everywhere. And, by gad, he not only refused to pay a note he gave me, but when I met him here last night he stared at me as if he’d never seen me before.”
“Rough, wasn’t it?”
Blickenstern laughed cheerfully, without a trace of irritation. Insults did not disturb him; he had killed one man and had wounded several in duels, but he fought only because it was the “proper thing for a gentleman”—and respect-inspiring in certain countries and in certain circumstances. “I’m off for home next week,” he said, “never to return to this bounder-land. I think, just before I go, I’ll get the face value of that note and interest—and not in money, either.”
Blickenstern had several drinks “on” Frothingham—half a dozen in as rapid succession as Frothingham could induce. But he refused to disclose his proposed revenge, only chuckled, “I’ll bet the dago’ll leave on the first steamer after I sail.”
“I’ll give the guinea one more chance”
Frothingham got Boughton to attempt Blickenstern, and Boughton not only tried it himself, but also put at work a friend of his in the German Embassy. Blickenstern, however, would not go beyond wagging his big blond head and saying, “Wait! I don’t want to spoil the fun.” The military attaché at the German Embassy was with him when he met Rontivogli again. “I’ll give the guinea one more chance,” said he, overflowing with good nature as always when he had drunk to excess. It was the office of the Shoreham, and Rontivogli was on his way out; Blickenstern bore down upon him, caught him by the lapel.