“You’ve paralyzed him sure,” he said, contempt for Alonzo and admiration for the Lady struggling for expression.
“Don’t you think it,” she said gaily, giving her pompadour a twist—“but what are we going to do?”
“Why, I’ll telephone for the auto and rush him around to the drug store. No, not a doctor—I know how to fix him. A good stiff Hi-lowball”—and Bill winked—“will start his vibrations again.”
Then the lovers, momentarily distracted from themselves, resumed where they had left off, and so successfully did Mr. Vanderhook Jr. press his claims that before the auto came smelling around the corner—and while the unconscious Alonzo lay cold and mute—Imogene had received the huge solitaire she had admired so prettily the last time she and Bill passed the Jeweler’s together.
Late that night, when Bill slipped noiselessly out of Mrs. Astor’s parlor, a golden hair was curiously entangled in the coils of his cameo shirt-stud.
And the Recluse, what of him?
What of him who had violated the First Degree?
After regaining his equilibrium he withdrew to his father’s house and, locking himself in his apartments, he there remained for one month, during which time he tasted neither food nor drink.