Rodrigo turned to comment upon her success to Bill Terhune, and discovered that the Dakotan had fallen fast asleep.
During the intermission, Rodrigo left his somnolent seat-mate and, buttonholing an usher, sent him back-stage with his card. In a few minutes, he followed the card to the dressing room of Sophie, where, in contrast to the noisy confusion outside, he was permitted to gaze upon her gold-and-tinsel liveliness at close range. She was sitting at her dressing-table, a filmy wrap thrown carelessly about the costume she has worn in the first act. Her slim, white body looked very girlish. Her wise, laughing blue eyes welcomed him. With a swift look at the closed door, she invited, "Kiss me, Rodrigo, and say you're glad to see me."
He obeyed, not altogether because it is always polite to accommodate a pretty lady who asks to be kissed. He wanted to kiss her. He would have done it without the invitation. He did it very expertly too. Sophie waved her hatchet-faced English maid out of the room. But that gesture was unnecessary. Rodrigo explained that he could only stay a minute. He had left the other male member of their contemplated foursome, sleeping. They laughed merrily over that. Sophie said she would be overjoyed to see Bill Terhune again. "I was afraid you were going to bring that sober-faced business partner of yours," she interjected. Rodrigo stiffened a little, but decided that this was neither the time nor the place to start an impassioned defence of John Dorning. The principal thing, he said, was to be sure Sophie and her companion were set for the festivities after the show. They were, she cried. She and Betty Brewster would meet them at the stage door fifteen minutes after the final curtain.
CHAPTER VIII
For an enormous bribe, the head waiter at the Quartier Latin removed the "Reserved" sign from a cozy table very near the dance floor and assisted the two ladies in draping their cloaks about their chairs. The "club" was crowded with the usual midnight-to-dawn merry-makers—brokers, theatrical celebrities, society juveniles of both sexes, sweet sugar daddies and other grades of daddies, bored girls, chattering girls, and plain flappers.
The Quartier Latin, Bill Terhune, awake, loudly proclaimed, was Broadway's latest night club rage. Well protected by the police.
Powdered white cheeks matched laundered white shirt-fronts as their owners "charlestoned" in each other's arms to the nervous, shuffling, muffled rhythm of the world's greatest jazz band. The air was full of talk, laughing, smoke, the discreet popping of corks and the resultant gurgle. The walls of the Quartier Latin were splashed with futurist paintings of stage and screen stars. The Frenchy waitresses wore short velvety black skirts, shiny silk stockings and artists' tams. They carried trays shaped like palettes. The tables were jammed so close together that one little false move would land one in one's neighbor's lap. Which would probably not have annoyed one's neighbor in the least, such was the spirit of the place. Everybody seemed to be working at top speed to have a good time as quickly as possible. It was rowdy, upsetting, exciting.
With the orchestra in action, one had to almost shout across the table to be heard above the din. Bill Terhune shouted at once to the waitress for glasses and the non-spiritous ingredients of highballs. They arrived, were flavored with libations from Bill's hip, and were consumed with approval. Then they danced, Rodrigo with Sophie and Bill with Betty Brewster. The latter was older than Sophie and much less vivacious and attractive. There were suggestions of hollows in her neck, her hair was that dead blond that comes from an excessive use of artificial coloring, and her eyes had a lack-lustre gleam. She was a typical show-girl who is nearing the declining period of her career. Next year one would find her on the variety stage, the following in a small-time burlesque production, then God knows where. To Rodrigo, there was, at first glance, something a little pathetic about her. He had expected that Sophie would invite a girl somewhat less radiant than herself. It is the habit with beauties to eliminate as much competition as possible of their own sex in their engagements with men.
But Rodrigo had little time to think about Betty. The highball, the disarmingly close presence of Sophie, and the general hilarious laxity of his surroundings were lulling his feelings. Sophie snuggled more closely to him. He breathed the faint, sweet perfume of her hair. The throbbing jungle music beat. The close atmosphere scented with cigarettes and cosmetics, the faces of dancing couples near him smothered thoughts of Dorning and Son. For the time being, he was the old Rodrigo.