“You’re a queer chap, Ban. And a loyal one.”
“If I weren’t loyal to Camilla Van Arsdale—” said Banneker, and left the implication unconcluded.
“Another friend from your picturesque past is down below,” said Edmonds, and named Gardner.
“Lord! That fellow nearly cost me my life, last time we met,” laughed Banneker. Then his face altered. Pain drew its sharp lines there, pain and the longing of old memories still unassuaged. “Just the same, I’ll be glad to see him.”
He sought out the Californian, found him deep in talk with Guy Mallory of The Ledger, who had come in late, gave him hearty greeting, and looked about for Camilla Van Arsdale. She was supping in the center of a curiously assorted group, part of whom remembered the old romance of her life, and part of whom had identified her, by some chance, as Royce Melvin, the composer. All of them were paying court to her charm and intelligence. She made a place beside herself for Banneker.
“We’ve been discussing The Patriot, Ban,” she said, “and Mr. Gaines has embalmed you, as an editorial writer, in the amber of one of his best epigrams.”
The Great Gaines made a deprecating gesture. “My little efforts always sound better when I’m not present,” he protested.
“To be the subject of any Gaines epigram, however stinging, is fame in itself,” said Banneker.
“And no sting in this one. ‘Attic salt and American pep,’” she quoted. “Isn’t it truly spicy?”
Banneker bowed with half-mocking appreciation. “I fancy, though, that Mr. Gaines prefers his journalistic egg more au naturel.”