“Save your advice for those who want it. Who are you, anyway?”
“James Tilley, at your service. Sent here from Washington to help you avoid trouble.”
The word “Washington” fell chill upon the banker’s ear. Nevertheless, he blustered “The Deutscher Club is my club. The Government cannot tell a private citizen to keep away from a private club.”
“But a well-wisher—such as myself—may suggest that he find his amusements elsewhere.”
“Well-wisher! A(c)h! Spy. Is this a free country? In Germany one would not be so oppressed.”
“This is not Germany. Bear that in mind. The Deutscher Club is—or something like it.”
“But—”
“And, by the way, tell your wife—Bertha Wanser is your wife, isn’t she? Exactly! She talks too much. Propaganda. Tell her to—”
“Vimmen, too!” snarled the other. “You can’t even keep your hands off vimmen. Tell her yourself.”
James Tilley sighed. “I will,” he said, and departed, leaving an irritant, disconcerting and healthily prudent impress upon the mind of the grandson of ’48.