“No. I’m living here.”
“That so? So am I. Come into my club and let’s talk. I’m glad to see you, Mr. Banneker.”
Even had Banneker been prone to self-consciousness, which he was not, the extreme, almost monastic plainness of the small, neutral-fronted building to which the other led him would have set him at ease. It gave no inkling of its unique exclusiveness, and equally unique expensiveness. As for Cressey, that simple, direct, and confident soul took not the smallest account of Banneker’s standardized clothing, which made him almost as conspicuous in that environment as if he had entered clad in a wooden packing-case. Cressey’s creed in such matters was complete; any friend of his was good enough for any environment to which he might introduce him, and any other friend who took exceptions might go farther!
“Banzai!” said the cheerful host over his cocktail. “Welcome to our city. Hope you like it.”
“I do,” said Banneker, lifting his glass in response.
“Where are you living?”
“Grove Street.”
Cressey knit his brows. “Where’s that? Harlem?”
“No. Over west of Sixth Avenue.”
“Queer kind of place to live, ain’t it? There’s a corkin’ little suite vacant over at the Regalton. Cheap at the money. Oh!-er-I-er-maybe—”