At this moment the negro butler approached. He deftly bore a huge tray, upon which crowded tall silver cups, crowned with the rich green of new mint and steaming frostily from their iced contents.
"Compliments of the bride, gentlemen!" he addressed them. "If you-all is prohibition, dishyer in de centuh is gwineteed not to obstruct yo' feelin's or beliefs—"
"Not for us, Uncle Neb!" Slosson laughed loudly, as he extended one of the juleps to Macgowan. "Here's a treat for you, effete easterner! Uncle Neb's cocktails are famous from here to Nashville, but his juleps are symphonic memories of the good old days. Take a long whiff of the mint first, mind; there's only one way to drink a julep. That right, Uncle Neb?"
"Dat sho' is de truth, Mistah Slosson!" The old negro was beaming. "Yas, suh. Folks sho' do prove dey quality on de julep. Ain't dat de truth, Mistah Slosson? M-mm! And Mistah Deming he done growed dat mint his own self, too—ain't nobody knows mint like he do!"
Macgowan sniffed deeply of the raw fragrance, and raised his goblet.
"Gentlemen, I give you the health of the bride!"
At these words, an almost imperceptible contraction occurred in the features of Slosson. Faint as was this movement of the facial muscles, instantly as it vanished, Macgowan observed it.
After this, he took a deep and lively interest in Pete Slosson; and Slosson, flattered, talked freely enough. Any man would have been flattered to hold the absorbed attention of Macgowan.
"You're wasting your talents here, Slosson," said Macgowan at last. His tone was abrupt and incisive, and confidential in the extreme. "You ought to have a year or two in Chicago or Indianapolis, handling bigger things, then come on to New York. There's no advancement for a man like you in this town."
Slosson listened with sulky eyes.