“He was making a hit with me at the Ritz, and I was showing him that scarab ring you tell me is phony; and he suddenly said those two words—said ’em both in one breath!—‘Indubitably,’ says he, ‘this is a veritable antique!’ The two words!... I’m off that schmeer,” she added.
Annan wanted to yawn but stifled the indiscretion.
“You know,” she drawled, “I’m sorry for Eris.”
“Why?”
“Well, she has picked a bum in Ratford Creevy, and in that Dutch souse, Emil Shunk. It isn’t agreeable to work with such people.... And I fancy Smull is beginning to bother her, too.”
A slight colour stained Annan’s temples: “Why do you fancy that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. One notices and hears. He’s always on her heels, always schmoozing around. Of course there’s gossip, there always is. But that’s the kind of man Smull is.... And there you are.”
“Is he—that kind?”
“Well, he tried it on Betsy. Imagine! On Betsy, my dear!”
“What happened?”