“Perhaps.” She changed the subject.
At Claridge’s they watched the people about them. They recognized some of them as actors and actresses, one of them, a Broadway star active in the formation of the new Equity League. In one corner sat a distinguished looking gentleman, with cruel blue eyes and dark hair and beard, surrounded by a group of admirers.
“That’s General Rodzinoff,” said Hamilton, “the Czarist commander whom we saw in Paris. New York is becoming cosmopolitan.”
“Oh, yes, I remember him. He’s probably arousing sympathy for the old régime,” remarked Dorothy. “The town is full of them. The emigrés are tired of Paris and are coming to this country. It’s more fertile.”
For a time they studied their menus. The colored waiter took their order obsequiously and hurried away.
“Don’t look now,” said Dorothy in a low voice, “but your Russian friend seems to be flirting.”
“Has he been practising his charms on you?” asked Hamilton.
“Oh, he’s glanced this way once or twice. But I don’t take it seriously. He’s probably spoiled by too much adulation.”
“And I suppose he’ll finish by marrying some American millionaire’s daughter. Why shouldn’t he? He’s a great war hero.”
“I don’t know about that,” Dorothy’s eyes snapped, “but I do know that he can drink like a good Russian officer. In Paris he was always more or less intoxicated, and if I don’t mistake the symptoms, he’s a little mellow now. That’s one of his favorite pastimes. The others are women and Jew baiting.”