They had no automobile, so George Tompkins called for them at 6.30. Tompkins was a successful interior decorator, a broad, rosy man with a handsome mustache and a strong odor of jasmine. He and Roger had once roomed side by side in a boarding-house in New York, but they had met only intermittently in the past five years.
"We ought to see each other more," he told Roger to-night. "You ought to go out more often, old boy. Cocktail?"
"No, thanks."
"No? Well, your fair wife will—won't you, Gretchen?"
"I love this house," she exclaimed, taking the glass and looking admiringly at ship models, Colonial whiskey bottles, and other fashionable débris of 1925.
"I like it," said Tompkins with satisfaction. "I did it to please myself, and I succeeded."
Roger stared moodily around the stiff, plain room, wondering if they could have blundered into the kitchen by mistake.
"You look like the devil, Roger," said his host. "Have a cocktail and cheer up."
"Have one," urged Gretchen.
"What?" Roger turned around absently. "Oh, no, thanks. I've got to work after I get home."