Bradley turned to Clifford’s companion. “So you tried to give me the slip, Mr. Morton. I heard what you suggested to Clifford. But I guess you are keeping off the booze to-night.”
“Just look this large person over, Clifford,” mourned the young fellow; “and honest, ain’t it hell, my father wishing a party like Bradley on me for a nurse!”
“You need one all right!” Bradley said grimly.
“But even babies get let alone for an hour now and then,” protested the other.
“You forget that the size of my check from your father depends upon my keeping you and booze apart.”
Morton sighed. “You’re a sordid person, Bradley.”
“I might mention incidentally,” continued Bradley, “that your father has just come to town.”
“The devil!” Morton’s face filled with dismay. “I guess, then, it really is good-night, Clifford.” He took Bradley’s arm. “Come on, nursie; let’s hail the captain of my perambulator.”
Clifford watched the two go out, and again he had the sense that he was glimpsing into the complicated maze behind the brilliant surface of Big Pleasure. The relationship between that pair might be strange for any other period in the world’s history, but it was a definite, though small, phase of this great pleasure life—a gay young spender bridled and the reins put in the hands of a private officer. Clifford felt a moment’s uneasiness for young Morton: in what ways could Bradley not twist his client and protégé into predicaments that would bring him profit?
When Clifford regained his table, Uncle George regarded him with amazement. “I thought you had gone!”