Dinner was an important event to Major Venable—the most important in life. The younger man humbly declined to make any suggestions, and sat and watched while his friend did all the ordering. They had some very small oysters, and an onion soup, and a grouse and asparagus, with some wine from the Major’s own private store, and then a romaine salad. Concerning each one of these courses, the Major gave special injunctions, and throughout his conversation he scattered comments upon them: “This is good thick soup—lots of nourishment in onion soup. Have the rest of this?—I think the Burgundy is too cold. Sixty-five is as cold as Burgundy ought ever to be. I don’t mind sherry as low as sixty.—They always cook a bird too much—Robbie Walling’s chef is the only person I know who never makes a mistake with game.”
All this, of course, was between comments upon the assembled millionaires. There was Hawkins, the corporation lawyer; a shrewd fellow, cold as a corpse. He was named for an ambassadorship—a very efficient man. Used to be old Wyman’s confidential adviser and buy aldermen for him.—And the man at table with him was Harrison, publisher of the Star; administration newspaper, sound and conservative. Harrison was training for a cabinet position. He was a nice little man, and would make a fine splurge in Washington.—And that tall man coming in was Clarke, the steel magnate; and over there was Adams, a big lawyer also—prominent reformer—civic righteousness and all that sort of stuff. Represented the Oil Trust secretly, and went down to Trenton to argue against some reform measure, and took along fifty thousand dollars in bills in his valise. “A friend of mine got wind of what he was doing, and taxed him with it,” said the Major, and laughed gleefully over the great lawyer’s reply—“How did I know but I might have to pay for my own lunch?”—And the fat man with him—that was Jimmie Featherstone, the chap who had inherited a big estate. “Poor Jimmie’s going all to pieces,” the Major declared. “Goes down town to board meetings now and then—they tell a hair-raising story about him and old Dan Waterman. He had got up and started a long argument, when Waterman broke in, ‘But at the earlier meeting you argued directly to the contrary, Mr. Featherstone!’ ‘Did I?’ said Jimmie, looking bewildered. ‘I wonder why I did that?’ ‘Well, Mr. Featherstone, since you ask me, I’ll tell you,’ said old Dan—he’s savage as a wild boar, you know, and won’t be delayed at meetings. ‘The reason is that the last time you were drunker than you are now. If you would adopt a uniform standard of intoxication for the directors’ meetings of this road, it would expedite matters considerably.’”
They had got as far as the romaine salad. The waiter came with a bowl of dressing—and at the sight of it, the old gentleman forgot Jimmie Featherstone. “Why are you bringing me that stuff?” he cried. “I don’t want that! Take it away and get me some vinegar and oil.”
The waiter fled in dismay, while the Major went on growling under his breath. Then from behind him came a voice: “What’s the matter with you this evening, Venable? You’re peevish!”
The Major looked up. “Hello, you old cormorant,” said he. “How do you do these days?”
The old cormorant replied that he did very well. He was a pudgy little man, with a pursed-up, wrinkled face. “My friend Mr. Montague—Mr. Symmes,” said the Major.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Montague,” said Mr. Symmes, peering over his spectacles.
“And what are you doing with yourself these days?” asked the Major.
The other smiled genially. “Nothing much,” said he. “Seducing my friends’ wives, as usual.”
“And who’s the latest?”