“Oh, cut it out, Mike,” Cohn said.
“Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don’t you say something?”
“I said all I had to say the other night, Mike.”
“I’m not one of you literary chaps.” Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table. “I’m not clever. But I do know when I’m not wanted. Why don’t you see when you’re not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God’s sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don’t you think I’m right?”
He looked at us.
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s all go over to the Iruña.”
“No. Don’t you think I’m right? I love that woman.”
“Oh, don’t start that again. Do shove it along, Michael,” Brett said.
“Don’t you think I’m right, Jake?”
Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title.