But the curse clung to Barry Annan. “He’s a nephew of Mrs. Magnelius Grandcourt,” was still remembered against him when his name and his stories irritated the less successful among his confrères. The conclusion of the envious was that he had a “pull.”
Bruce rose to go—a dark, sleek young man, trimmed in Van Dyck fashion, with long, acquisitive fingers and something in his suave manner that suggested perpetual effort to please. But his eyes were opaque.
“Tell my aunt,” said Annan, “that if she’ll behave herself she can come and live a sporting life with me in Governor’s Place, and bring her cat, parrot, and geranium.”
Bruce’s shocked features were Annan’s reward. He grinned through the rest of luncheon; was still grinning when he left the Pewter Mug.
Outside he met Coltfoot, hot and without appetite.
“It’s ten degrees hotter down-town,” grunted the latter. “I’m empty, but the idea of food is repugnant. Where are you going, Barry?”
Annan had forgotten Eris. “I’m going to get out of town,” he said. “I think I’ll go out to Esperence and get some golf. We can be back by 7:30. Does it appeal to you, Mike?”
“It does, but I’m a business man, not a genius,” said Coltfoot, sarcastically. “Did you ship your tramp girl home?”
“Oh, Lord, I clean forgot her,” exclaimed Annan. “I’ve got to go back to Governor’s Place. I must get rid of her before dinner——”
He was already moving toward Sixth Avenue. He turned and called back, “Eight o’clock, Mike!”