“You like my things,” and Warren's voice purred almost happily. There was a softening change in his attitude, which Shirley understood. The appreciation of a fellow worshiper warmed his heart. “My books—all bound privately, you know, for I hate shop bindings. Most of them from second-hand stalls, redolent with the personalities of half a hundred readers. Books are so much more worth reading when they have been read and read again. Don't you think so?”
“Yes. I see your tastes run to the modern school. Individualism, even morbidity: Spencer, Nietsche, Schopenhauer, Tolstoi, Kropotkin, Gorky—They express your thoughts collectively?”
“Yes, but not radically enough. My entire intellectual life has driven me forward—I am a disciple of the absolute freedom, the divinity of self, and—but there I invited you to a joy party, not a university seminar.”
“But the party will grow riper with age,” and Shirley was prone to continue the autopsy. “You are a university man. Where did you study?”
“Sipping here and there,” and a forgivable vanity lightened Warren's face. “Gottingen, Warsaw, Jena, Oxford, Milan, The Sorbonne and even at Heidelberg, the jolly old place. You see my scar?” He pulled back a lock of his wavy black hair from the left temple to show a cut from a student duelist's sword. “But you Americans—I mean, we Americans—we have such opportunities to pick up the best things from the rest of the world.”
“No, Warren,” and Shirley shook his head, not overlooking the slight break which indicated that his host was a foreigner, despite the quick change. “I have been to busy wasting time to collect anything but fleeting memories. Too much polo, swimming, yachting, golfing—I have fallen into evil ways. I think your example may reform me. You must dine with me at my club some day, and give me some hints about making such wonderful purchases.”
“I know the most wonderful antique shop,” Warren began, and just then was interrupted by Shine Taylor and a dizzy blonde person with whom he maxixed through the Hindu draperies, each deftly balancing a champagne glass.
“Here, Reg, you neglect your other guests. Come on in!” Shine's companion held out a wine glass to Warren, but her eyes were fixed in a fascinated stare upon Montague Shirley.
“Why, what are you doing here?”
It was little Dolly Marion, Van Cleft's companion on the fatal automobile ride. She trembled: the glass fell to the floor with a tinkly crash. Shirley smiled indulgently. Taylor and Warren exchanged looks, but Monty knew that they must by this time be aware of his command to the girl to abstain from gay associations.