Vreeland started as A rejoined moodily: “I had hoped that some other fellow might have a chance to make the running at Lakemere, now that Hathorn is rangé; but it really seems to be ‘a petit ménage
à trois’ so far.”
And B, thereat, enviously growled: “He ought to cling to the generous woman who made him. I always thought Hathorn would finally marry her. She trusts him with her chief account, the —— deals.” Vreeland cursed the caution which cost him that one keyword “but, there’s a mystery.”
It was with a wolfish hunger for “more sweetness and light” that the unmoved Vreeland deftly arose and followed his host and Potter to a fair upper chamber of that narrow-chested corner club house on Fifth Avenue in the thirties, at whose critic-infested windows both Miss Patricia and Miss Anonyma “give a side glance and look down.”
The royal road to fortune which had led the ambitious Hathorn “on the heights” seemed to be clear of mist now to his hypocritical visitor.
Was there room for another chariot in the race? The familiar sprite was busy with daring suggestions.
If a rich woman—not of an age très tendre—had made one man, some other woman of that ilk might be waiting with a willing heart in the babel of Gotham for the shapely young Lochinvar come out o’ the West.
The fires of hope leaped through his veins.
As they seated themselves to the enjoyment of that particular clear turtle soup which is justly the pride of the club chef
, both host and guest were adroitly playing at cross-purposes.